All The Devils Are Here
by Wordwalker
Summary: Centuries ago, Quinn Fabray fell. And now, someone wants her dead. Can the Unholy Trinity come together and fight the mysterious forces gripping Lima? Or will they lose one of their own?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This has been stewing in my mind for a little while now, so I thought it about time that I got it out and shared it. I hope you all enjoy it.**

Her wings twitched, heavy and restless, urging her to take flight. She wanted to jump, to let them catch the air, then in one powerful movement, bring them down with all the force she could muster, letting them take her higher and higher, until her feathers kissed the clouds. In two beats she could clear the powerlines, in three, the houses, in four, the trees, and in seven, the planes. With the empty street stretching before her, the eyes of houses closed against the roasting summer heat, it was tempting.

A car drove past, forcing her to move out of the middle of the road. It whirred over the tarmac, then getting lost in the shimmer of the rising heat, faded into the distance. She sighed; it was tempting, but it was stupid - someone could see her. The unnerving summer quiet was a façade; life was everywhere - cats lingering under parked cars, neighbours eyeing the street through turned blinds, the adventurous driving to the mall, where the promise of crowds and air conditioning called them. Even now, a teenager emerged from a house, black plastic bag in hand, crinkling in protest as it was unceremoniously dumped into a trash can.

"Quinn!" the brunette teen called from the side of the road, spotting her meandering down the street. She plastered a look of boredom across her features to hide irritation, and let her wings melt into the network of black lines across her shoulders and back. The temptation still hung in the air, but tempered, like a fantasy facing the reality of day. The brunette girl was going to invite her in; the expectant smile said it all.

"Rachel," Quinn acknowledged as she approached, noting the girl's eyes twitch to her shoulder before sliding away.

"Quinn, what are you doing out? It's much too hot to be walking around in the middle of the day," the shorter girl admonished, before blushing, "sorry. What I meant to say was did you want to come in? I don't want to interrupt your walk, but I see you aren't carrying any water, and it's important to stay hydrated in weather like this."

Quinn suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. Despite the intense heat, she hadn't even broken a sweat during her walk; she didn't need water. But Rachel was staring expectantly, clearly not about to accept a refusal, so, relinquishing to the inevitable, Quinn accepted her offer. What would it hurt? Besides, it helped to keep up the pretence or normality, even if no one quite registered that there was something off about her.

Rachel led them up the porch, but paused at the door, the hand she had on the handle sliding off, as she turned to face Quinn. Her eyes again twitched to her shoulder.

"I'm sorry Quinn, I can't let you in," she mumbled, "it's nothing big, but you have a feather on your shoulder, and I couldn't have it falling on the floor inside."

Quinn glanced down. There it was, the offending black feather, perched on her shoulder as if it were a prized parrot. Her irritation multiplied tenfold; she hated it when she malted. She brushed it off with a single, annoyed stroke, raising her eyebrows at the brunette, letting her expression ask the question. Rachel smiled, the smile of the content ignoramus.

The cool of the house came as a welcome relief. Rachel almost audibly sighed at the temperature change. For Quinn, it lessed the hold of the temptation of being in the sky, a relief almost as great as Rachel's. She could hear the whir of the air conditioning, hear the sound of the cool wind battering the air vents as it valiantly fought to stave off Lima's summer. Modern technology - it truly was a gift. She could never forget the countless times in centuries past where the only option was to sit in the shade. She couldn't help but be glad that mankind had finally decided that the climate wouldn't control them.

"A glass of water?" Rachel asked, pulling two glasses down from the cupboard, already presuming the answer.

"Yes please," Quinn replied, playing along with the charade.

"And ice?"

"Thank you."

Quinn thanked Rachel again as a tall glass of icy water was plonked on the bench before her, the ice cubes clinking against the side. She again marvelled at the progress of technology, recalling a time when, to some people, ice was a completely foreign concept; those people would have died for something like this power to have it on an unlimited basis. They had died for much less in their time. She washed the memories away with a gulp of the water, letting it cool her burning insides. Her insides were always burning these days.

"So, were you walking anywhere interesting?" Rachel asked, breaking the temporary silence; any silence with Rachel was a temporary one.

"Not particularly. Just wandering. Lima's amazingly quiet in the middle of a heat wave," Quinn answered, deliberately vague. How could she describe the feeling that she was being called somewhere in the summer heat but not knowing how or where? How could she describe an impulse?

"It is hot isn't it? They're saying it's out hottest summer in two hundred years," Rachel said, grasping the opportunity for small talk. It was strange, the two of them in that house. Quinn had been there before, but never on her own - she'd never been the only one to fill the silence. At least the two of them had settled most of their past differences. Quinn had realised she was over exaggerating the high school student, head cheerleader persona, and had antagonised Rachel far more than the girl deserved, so she had toned it down a couple of notches - enough so that they weren't constantly at each other's throats.

"I heard. It's the worst heat wave we've ever had, apparently," she said, contributing to the conversation.

"They said there'd be a cool change in the next few days. I really hope they're right. You know the weather people, they're wrong half the time, but I hope they get it right this time. Daddy won't be happy if his flowers wilt. He's been tending to them all year," Rachel explained. Despite her pretend air of indifference, Quinn chuckled; of all the things to be concerned about, Rachel worried about flowers.

"I'm sure they'll be fine."

"I hope so. They're not suited to Lima's weather, but Daddy insisted on trying to get them to blossom. He's so stubborn sometimes. His heart will break if they die in this unrelentess heat."

"There's a cool change coming, you said so yourself. The flowers will be fine," Quinn reassured. On the inside, she wasn't so confident of her words; if life taught her anything, it was that heat like this was usually followed by a ferocious storm. She had almost no doubt that in the next few days, the tempest would break over their heads - she could taste the electricity in the air already, and the threat of thunder groaned in her bones. Oh yes, there would be a storm, and a mighty one, at that.

She took another sip of the ice water; a shiver crawled up her spine, leaving goosebumps on her arms, but she wasn't sure whether it was the cold water, or the notion of the oncoming storm which caused it. She didn't care to analyse it enough to find out.

As if hearing the conversation about his flowers, Hiram Berry slumped into the room, stopping short when he saw Quinn. She hadn't expected a welcoming smile, but the glare from the man was filled with more hate than she imagined. She almost flinched.

"Rachel, honey, may I ask why Quinn Fabray is sitting in my kitchen?"

"She was walking past when I took the trash out, so I invited her in for some refreshments. You know how hot it is outside, Daddy," Rachel scrambled. Her words came out apologetic, but whether to her or Hiram, Quinn couldn't tell. Hiram nodded, glancing at his daughter.

"I thought we discussed this, Rachel," he began.

"Daddy, not now!"

Quinn wasn't welcome. She'd known it the second she'd stepped foot through the door, seeing the simple, yet elegant furniture, the books and magazines so neatly placed on the coffee table. With her deliberately frayed jeans and equally as messed up pink hair, she look as out of place in the Berry house as a fox within a chicken coop.

"It's ok, Mr Berry, I was just leaving. Thanks for the water, Rachel. I appreciate it," she said, rising.

"Quinn, you don't have to," Rachel apologised, but Quinn was already halfway gone. Behind her, she heard the whine of Rachel's voice, "Daddy, that was rude!"

If Hiram replied, Quinn's ears missed it. She was blasted by the heat when she pulled open the front door; it was like walking into an oven. It wasn't a surprise, Hiram's reaction to her presence; she and Rachel may have moved forward from their past, but her father obviously, had not. She doubted either of the two Berry men possessed their daughter's forgiveness.

Before she had stepped off the Berry lawn and onto the street, a hand caught her arm. She jerked, throwing it off; she disliked being touched almost as much as she disliked malting.

"Quinn, I'm so sorry. Daddy was out of place. You could stay, if you like. It doesn't matter about him. He's just being childish. He knows perfectly well that you and I have laid our differences to rest and have turned over a new leaf - but he refuses to accept it. He can be so infuriating sometimes. But really, Quinn, you can come back inside, you don't have to feel like you have to leave. Rachel Berry is hospitable, even if her father refuses to be," gushed the brunette, barely stopping for breath. Quinn admired her bravery in running out after her considering her father's reaction, but she was resolute - she wouldn't return to the Berry household. And she told Rachel as much.

"Then neither shall I," she stated, falling into step beside Quinn. The pink haired girl barely restrained herself from groaning; so much for a quiet walk in solitude.

They made their way down the street, the sun burning their backs through the fabric of their clothes; it seemed the heat could penetrate anywhere. Quinn rolled her shoulders; now would not be a good time to give in to the itch which crawled across her back. She quivered, fighting the urge to leap into the perfect blue sky and leave the damn world behind. She hoped Rachel didn't notice.

"Did it hurt?" Rachel asked, glancing at the tattoo visible on Quinn's shoulders, disappearing beneath the thin black fabric.

"It was agony," she replied, in all honesty. Had it been an ordinary tattoo, she was sure that the pain would have been bearable - but it wasn't. The two lapsed back into silence, letting their legs carry them through the haze, to the horizon, wherever it wanted to take them. Quinn wasn't going to talk more about her tattoo. Instead, she drifted to the middle of the road, walking the broken line, grey from the dirt of tyres. Rachel stuck to the sidewalk. They were two beings, almost together, almost apart, walking parallel lives.

A car emerged from a side street, accelerating past as Quinn moved out of its path. The rev of the engine vibrated in her sternum. Or was that the approaching storm? She glanced at the sky - still azure. But still she didn't put the feeling all down to the car. She was too uneasy, too agitated. She had to fly, she had to get far away from here while she could. But she couldn't. Rachel kept pace with her from the footpath, shackling her to the earth. Quinn didn't like these new chains.

The nice houses became spotted, the further they trekked through their city, the silence binding them. Quinn didn't even know Rachel could go so long without saying a word. The houses around them were almost falling to ruin now, the paint flaking, the floorboards supporting the porches rotting. Every so often, they'd pass a house, pristine white - a mocking of its surrounds. These houses were like blinding beacons in the sunlight, hurting their eyes if they looked too long; seraphims among rusting suburbia.

The sound of metal clanking on concrete ran out across the street, and a child ran out from an alley, baseball cap on backwards. Sweat poured from his body, plastering errant strands of his hair to his face. He vaulted over the low iron fence of one of the houses and slunk through the barely open front door, as slick as a shadow. Quinn and Rachel watched him, fully alert; this wasn't a neighbourhood to be trusted - even the houses seemed to have eyes, following them as they hurried past.

The air crackled. Looking up, Quinn noted the first tendrils of cloud spreading their fingers over the city, ready to clamp it its grip. Perhaps the storm would arrive sooner than she'd expected. Reason warned her to turn tail and go home, but she was inexplicably drawn forward, onwards. Whether Rachel felt the pull too, or whether she was simply following her lead, the pink haired girl couldn't tell. Either way, they were going together, wherever their destination might be.

From nowhere, a gust of wind blew, picking up the leaves and making them dance in the air, swirling in and out of each other - an invisible puppeteer. And it was as hot as an inferno, buffeting the girls' bodies, scorching them. It was sudden, but that's how winds worked - they literally appeared out of nowhere and tore the world to pieces. This particular wind brought the iron grey clouds racing through the atmosphere. The storm had arrived. And it was fierce. In moments, the city had gone from as still as a cemetery to as restless as an open ocean. If the sky had a temper, its anger was being directed at Lima, and Lima cowered under its threat.

To their right, a woman collected her washing, throwing it into a laundry basket, ready to whisk it off inside. Further down, a man secured a blue tarpaulin cover over his car, tying it off with thin rope. A dark haired girl ran out from one of the few well kept houses, waving her hands at them.

"Q! Where have you been? We need you, right now," she exclaimed, hurrying back up the lawn, expecting Quinn to follow. She complied. Rachel scurried in her wake. The girl led them past the house to the garage in the back. It was more in place with the rest of the suburb, rusting and old, with a hole in the wall where a plank of wood had fallen away and the concrete had been chipped off. Quinn's hair stood on end as she pulled the door open after the girl, before it had had time to close.

"Quinn! You made it!" a blonde girl projected from the corner, "and you brought Rachel with you! Lord Tubbington says hello."

"Hello Brittany. Lord Tubbington," Rachel smiled.

"You're late. And you bring loud mouthed shortie with you. What is wrong with you, Q? Did the heat melt your mind or something?" the dark haired girl snapped. Quinn sat down opposite her, unfazed. This was where she was being called; a backyard in Lima Heights Adjacent. Of course. That's what the pull had been: this girl's voice whispering to her blood.

"Santana, it's ok. She's here now. And I like Rachel. Lord Tubbington does too," Brittany quipped from her seat on the floor. From her lap, the large cat purred, as if in agreement. Santana growled in response.

"Nice trick Santana. But you could have called," Quinn said. The Latina grinned.

"You like it? I've been studying."

"It would have been much more impressive if I knew what was happening."

"Well, it worked didn't it? You got here," Santana said, "late. As usual."

"Would have gotten here sooner if I knew where I was going."

"Whatever Q. You like being late."

Quinn rolled her eyes and lit up a cigarette. She inhaled, letting the smoke remain in her lungs for a few seconds, then let it out. It hung in the air, curling in wisps, trying to touch the ceiling. The trails diffused before they got the chance.

"The storm yours?" she asked, watching the smoke rise in the small space.

"No. That's why we're here. I wants to know who's impinging on my airspace," Santana said, pausing her work and grabbing the cigarette off Quinn. Quinn let her have it. A cough came from beside Brittany.

"Sorry, but did you say your airspace? Can someone please explain what's going on? I'm confused and it's hot and nothing is making sense," Rachel whined.

"Why is she here again?" Santana asked, glowering at Quinn.

"Because your new trick isn't as good as you thought and she heard you too."

"Goddamnit!"

"Santana, calm down. Rachel, Santana and I are witches," Brittany explained. Rachel stared for a second in silence, then burst into laughter.

"Brittany, witches don't exist. That's ridiculous. Magic isn't real, so witches can't be real. I think you've been reading too much Harry Potter."

"Mi Dios. Someone gag her already," Santana muttered.

"Isn't that the one with the aliens?" Brittany frowned, "but magic is real. I promise. We'll show you."

Rachel shook her head, still disbelieving, "And I suppose Quinn's a so called witch as well."

"Quinn's an angel," Brittany stated, rubbing Lord Tubbington's fur.

"I used to be. A long time ago," Quinn corrected. Rachel's jaw fell open, her eyes popping. In a matter of seconds, she'd recovered herself, getting to her feet.

"You're all crazy. I can't believe I'm hearing this. Witches and angels and magic. You're all insane. I'm leaving."

"You can't, Treasure Trail," Santana piped up, lighting a fire between herself and Quinn, "the meeting's begun. You can't leave until it's over. Trust me," she assured, catching sight of Rachel's face, "I wish you could too."

Brittany tugged Rachel by the hand, pulling her back down beside her on the floor. Lord Tubbington rubbed his face against Rachel's side.

"Lord Tubbington wants you to stay," the blonde girl smiled.

"I hate these things," Quinn growled, "it's a million degrees outside, and we have to light a fire."

"Quit your whinging Q. You're just as curious as I am, and a little more heat won't kill you. I'm surprised you even feel it."

The flames danced before her eyes, leaping up higher and higher, players in an ornate choreography, unique every time it was viewed. They drew Quinn in, enfolding her within their patterns, enticing her further. Their smoke mingled with that of her cigarette, filing even the darkest corner of the room with an exotic fragrance. Quinn closed her eyes and breathed it in. She almost floated away in it, her soul reaching out from her body, stretching its tethers, but not quite breaking free. It settled back into her corporeal self once she opened her eyes, forcing her to focus on reality.

Her eyelids were heavy, as though she were walking the line between two worlds, at any moment able to fall back into the other. She felt as if she were awake in a dream. But this was real - Santana sat opposite her, legs crossed, measuring out a fine white powder, Brittany and Rachel behind her, one stroking her cat, the other looking on with wide eyes. Their presences were solid, fixed, not at all like the wraith people in her dreams.

The wind from outside whipped past the slowly deteriorating garage, howling through the hole in the wall, like some ghost of a tortured soul. It fanned the small fire burning in the centre of the room, and the light flickered, casting multiple shadows of their figures on the walls. Quinn imagined that this could be a mortal nightmare - superficial with the never fixed, the ever howling, the threatening; real nightmares were worse.

Santana threw her powder into the fire and it flared green, the tall flames momentarily growing and licking the ceiling, illuminating the room with their phosphorescence. The sweat on Rachel's brow turned into a thousand tiny emeralds, and Brittany's skin took on a waxen sheen - she almost looked dead. But the fire died down and returned to their normal orange, everything returning to its regular hue along with it.

Santana was humming a song as she worked. Quinn watched her from her own side of the flames. The Latina's eyes were unfocused, but her hands were sure, scooping up two twigs and casting them into the fire. Pausing, she looked at Brittany, who coming forward holding Lord Tubbington, plucked some hairs from his coat, causing him to yelp in surprise, and added them to the blaze. They disappeared among the oranges and yellows and reds, burnt to particles before they had a chance to reach the wooden fuel. Santana added a pinch of ashes from an urn, continuing her strange song.

The sound wrapped around Quinn, pulling her further into the ceremony - whether she liked it or not, she was part of events now. It seemed to echo around her, as though it was emerging from the passage of time, sung by generations of witches as far back as memory could recall, and beyond. It lilted, it crashed, it inspired, it depressed; one moment it was the soft caress of waves upon the shore, the next it was a volcano, spilling the bowls of the earth into the sky.

"Quinn," Brittany nudged when Santana next paused. Time for her role. Without hesitation, she pushed her wings back and out, feeling them shoot from her back, extending into the small space. She ignored the pain of the manoeuvre - after centuries of it, she'd acquired a tolerance. She heard the gasp from Rachel as she unfurled them, the tips brushing the walls. Santana reached through the flames and plucked out a single black feather, dropping it into the fire as she retracted her arm. The place she'd pulled it from stung, but like the other pain, Quinn ignored it. Her wings rose and fell in time with her breathing, mirroring the movements of her chest. She left them as they were - it was the closest thing she'd had to freedom for a time; the chains around her loosened just a little bit, and the breaths she took seemed deeper.

Opposite her, Santana's hands found a dagger, glinting clean and gold in the firelight. She gestured to Quinn. The pink haired girl held her hand over the flames, palms turned up, letting them sear the back of her hand. Santana brought the tip of the dagger to her palm, allowing it to create and indentation in her skin. Quinn watched in morbid fascination as the indent became a rift between two halves of skin. For a fraction of a second, nothing happened, then blood welled up, a red so dark that it almost looked black. She turned her hand over and let a few drops fall into the blaze. Brittany imitated her movements, letting her own blood mingle with the fire. The three of them turned to Rachel. In a heartbeat, she realised why.

"No. I'm not letting you cut open my hand. I can only imagine what infections might enter my blood from that knife, and I for one am not ready to risk HIV because of some crazy mumbo jumbo. There's no way," she said, crossing her arms.

"You have to. Everyone has to. It's part of the ceremony," Brittany explained.

"Brittany's right. If you're present, your blood has to go into the fire. There's no way out of it Rachel, " Quinn added, "and trust me, you won't get a disease from the blade. We're all clean, I promise."

"Still no, Quinn."

"Don't make us force you."

"You can't."

"We can, and we will if you don't get over here."

"You absolutely have to cut my hand?" Rachel asked, and Quinn knew that she was caving.

"Yes. But I promise we'll take care of the cut. We'll clean it, we'll wrap it, whatever you want, but it has to be done. We need your blood. Just a few drops, that's all," she said. As she spoke, Lord Tubbington butted his head against Rachel, willing her to move. Reluctantly, she got to her feet and joined the three of them around the fire. Even more reluctantly, she imitated Quinn and Brittany's gestures. Santana made quick work of the cut, slicing open the skin in a second. As soon as Rachel removed her hand, she ministered the same gash to her own hand.

Her humming, growing louder and more violent as these motions were made, came to a crescendo, then stopped. The silence, marred only by the crackling and popping of the blaze was deafening, too loud after her song. She broke it in a quiet voice.

"We are Bound."

At the completion of her statement, the flames drew into themselves, swirling - a microcosmic universe. Quinn crushed her still lit cigarette underfoot, watching the spectacle of fire. It quivered, and paused. And then it started to writhe.


	2. Chapter 2

The heat seared her face as she gazed at the flames. They twisted and whirled, contracting as she watched. They seemed to whisper to her "Quinn, Quinn Fabray," over and over, utterly captivating. They seemed to solidify before her eyes, becoming the bust of a woman - she was ghostly, even in the orange light.

"You dare call me? You dare face me?" the woman said, her voice reverberating through the tiny space, the windows buzzing from the force of the sound. Quinn shivered - the voice was like ice, dripping down her oesophagus and burning her stomach.

"And who the hell are you Why are you sending a storm over my city? You have no right," Santana snapped at the visage. The ghostly lip curled in a snarl, and the retort which followed was filled with earth shattering rage.

"Such insolence! Such arrogance! Do you not recognise power when it appears?"

"Yeah, yeah. You have power, congratulations. Now answer the questions."

"I am known by many names, but you are not worthy of knowing any of them," the voice hissed. It shook Quinn; she'd seen many people of power before, but not many who had this kind of strength and certainly not many who had this level of self assurance. It had been a long time since anyone had instilled the slightest pang of fear in her.

She squinted at the glowing face. Yes, there was something familiar in the cheekbones, in the planes of the face. It was subtle, different from the face she'd known many moons ago, yet the same. The longer she looked, the more obvious it became. Unable to recognise details because of the fire, she was still willing to bet that the woman's eyes were an ice cold blue, and her hair was a raven black.

"The Morrigan," she said, and the woman's ears pricked at the name.

"Indeed, that is one of the names I have gone by over the centuries. Others have known me as the Ice Queen, and others still as Morgan le Fay. I now prefer Morgana - a beautiful, yet inconspicuous name in this age where everybody is capable of finding out everything about everyone else. All those names inspire fear in the hearts of those who hear them," she bragged, pride in her voice, so thick it was almost tangible. There was something else too; it raised the hair on the back of Quinn's neck. The fire sparked. The woman laughed, causing the air to crackle and Quinn realised what it was: power. The storm was hers, so even the very air was infused with her magic. Quinn felt vulnerable against it.

"But I cannot see who has recognised me. Step forth out of the shadows and let me see you," Morgana leered. Quinn raised her chin, gesturing Santana aside with a jerk of her head and stepping into the witch's line of sight.

"It is I," she announced, flaring her wings in all their resplendent glory.

"Ah. The Fallen," murmured the woman, almost in reverence, and for a second, Quinn thought that her presence wasn't going to be a bad thing - until she sneered, "I set out to find you and there you are, revealing yourself to me as though we don't care for your safety. No matter. You have made my quest easier."

"I don't fear you, Morrigan."

"No? You lie. Why then, have you been running for centuries, millennia, from me? Do not lie, Fallen, for I know all."

The woman laughed, making the skin crawl of everybody in the room; even Lord Tubbington's hair stood on end. A crack of thunder shook the world, windows vibrating, dust falling from the ceiling into their eyes. When the four of them had wiped it away, they found the fire back to normal; Morgana was gone, the connection severed. Quinn clenched her jaw so tightly that her teeth ached - the woman knew where they were, but they did not know where she was. She cursed herself for her momentary arrogance - she'd put them all in danger. Faced with the woman she'd slipped from so many times had made her proud, and her pride had cost them secrecy, the only advantage they could have had. Banging her head repeatedly against the wall wasn't near punishment enough for her stupidity.

"We have to go," she growled to the others. In obedience, Brittany picked up her cat, who pressed in against the comfort of her body; despite the intense heat, he was trembling and couldn't seem to stop. The sight unnerved Quinn a little.

"Now wait a minute, Q. We're supposed to run because some witch turns up with a thunderstorm?" Santana asked, incredulous. "No way. Santana Lopez don't run from anybody. Especially not bitches who get all up in my airspace."

"No, we're running because she knows who I am. We're running because she's the hunter and I'm the prey, and she can see us while we can't see her. Get used to it, because yes, Santana Lopez is about to _start_ running. And trust me, you'll be running for a while. You don't have a choice."

"I don't have to listen to you, Fabray!" the Latina yelled as Quinn jostled the girls.

"Fine. Don't. She'll feed you to her crows. It doesn't bother me."

"Santana, Quinn knows best. If she says we have to go, we have to go," Brittany tugged, stopping the retort about to explode from the other girl and slap Quinn in the face, "she's been around longer than us, San."

"Fine. Where are we going?" Santana said, instantly becalmed. Quinn silently thanked the blonde as she ran a hand through her pink hair.

"Your car. We're dropping Rachel home, then we're getting as far away from here as we can go. I'll let you grab some things, but hurry it up, we don't have much time," she said. Already she could feel the Morrigan closing in on her, invisible but deadly. The very earth seemed to close her in; she'd never felt this claustrophobic in her life. If it had just been her, there wouldn't have been a problem, but now she was responsible for the lives of three other people and a cat. This time, she had to save them all.

"You're going to just take me home?" Rachel fumed as Santana and Brittany raced up the stairs of the house, "You let me see that, but you're going to leave me behind anyway? I won't stay. I won't let you do that to me!"

"No choice," Quinn grunted. She hated this confrontation. She was always the one who had to deal with this with Rachel - she always had to break the hard truths to her, like it was her destiny or something. It was frustrating. Just once it would have been nice if she didn't have to be involved, especially in something like this.

"But it's ok to have Brittany and Santana along? You are so infuriating, Quinn Fabray! I've done countless things for you, and you're going to throw me aside like I never mattered. Am I just extra baggage to you? I thought we were friends once," the brunette raged while Quinn listened with heavy heart. Rachel didn't understand. She took a deep breath, letting the oxygen give her strength, and tried to explain it to the shorter girl.

"I do care about you. I'm not throwing you aside, not at all. You have to stay because she didn't see you. And you haven't been touched by the Otherworld, so she can't track you. As far as the Morrigan is concerned, you don't even exist. You're staying here because it's the only way I can guarantee your safety," she said quietly, "what kind of person would I be if I let the people I cared about get hurt when I could prevent it?"

Rachel's jaw hung slack as Quinn finished her speech. Clearly these reasons had never crossed her mind.

"Oh," she eventually managed, "but it's still not fair."

Quinn rolled her eyes. Typical Rachel; you gave her a list of reasons, _good_ reasons for why she had to do something, and she'd just tell you it wasn't fair because she was being left out.

"It wouldn't be fair if you got killed in a battle that wasn't yours to fight."

"What about Santana and Brittany? Is it their battle too?" Rachel asked, and Quinn's stomach dropped.

"No. It's not theirs either. But if they stay, she'll find them and they'll die. At least together we have a chance," she replied, but while she had hope, she wasn't optimistic about their chances. She'd walked this path before. It hadn't ended well. "I'm choosing the lesser of two evils."

"They're really witches, aren't they? I can't believe it."

"Yeah," Quinn nodded, "I know, it's weird at first. It makes sense if you think about it."

Rachel groaned, "maybe I'll wake up and this will all have been a dream, a really, really strange, bad dream."

Quinn pinched her on the arm, hard, making her jerk her arm away.

"OW!"

"Definitely not a dream."

"I was hoping!" Rachel glared, "Why does Morgana want you anyway?"

Just as Quinn opened her mouth, the two cheerleaders stumbled down the stairs, duffel bags in hand. In her other hand, Santana held her car keys.

"Let's go," she said.

"I'm not even going to ask how Brittany has things here to pack," Quinn said. The two girls smiled, mischief written all over their faces.

If the four of them had thought that walking outside was like walking into a furnace, then opening the car doors was like opening the doorway to Hell itself. Rachel let out a gasp and Santana cussed in Spanish under her breath. She threw her duffel bag into the back seat and clambered into the driver's side.

"Fuck!" she exclaimed, jerking her hands away from the wheel. "How am I supposed to drive this thing?"

"You'll manage," Quinn said, retracting her wings so they'd melt back into a tattoo. She jumped into the backseat, impatiently pulling Rachel in after her; Brittany had already taken a seat in the front passenger's side. Quinn hated the back, but she wasn't going to pull Santana into an argument by not letting Brittany sit there.

With a low rumble, the engine started and the Latina swiftly manoeuvred the car out into the street, flooring the accelerator as soon as they'd cleared the driveway. The car shot forward, growling as it sped along the tarmac. The houses to either side blurred past, details lost to the ever increasing speed and the haze of the heat. Quinn could barely make out the doorways, as they drove. Even with the howling wind, overcast sky and the windows wound all the way down, the heat from the car didn't ease. She had finally begun to sweat lightly, and glancing at the other three, she could see that they all glistened with the sheen of their body's water. It really was like a moving version of Hell.

Lightning tore open the sky overhead, momentarily blinding them with white light. Thankfully, Santana didn't slow. She was breaking all sorts of laws, speed being the most obvious, but none of them in the car cared. The wind chased them and they fled from it. A crack of thunder, as sharp as a whip lashed the city, shaking the ground and stopping their hearts. Still, Santana sped on.

She rounded a corner too fast, the tyres screeching a protest as they struggled to maintain traction with the sticky black asphalt. With skill Quinn didn't know the other girl possessed, Santana got them steady, straightening the car and leaving the corner behind with another squeal from her tyres. Rachel glanced back through the rear view window, and emulating her motion, Quinn could see the black streak they had left on the ground; another of the city's battle scars.

"Where'd you learn to drive like that?" she asked the girl.

"You're not the only one who got into trouble last summer," the Latina grinned, and then answered, "drag racing."

"Damn. You're good at it."

"We all got our talents, Q."

Quinn chuckled as Santana took another corner, this time with more finesse. They were approaching the Berry house. It had taken them ten minutes - record time.

"Why is she after you, Quinn?" Rachel quietly asked from beside her as Santana pulled he car into the Berry driveway. Quinn glanced at her. Sweat dripped down the side of the girl's face like an errant tear, and Quinn wondered whether it was entirely the heat which resulted in her excessive perspiration, or whether there was a dose of fear intermingled with it. The brunette looked almost pitiful.

"Because I'm one of the Fallen. I defied convention and the thought of it terrifies them. Apparently, I need to be controlled because I'm dangerous," she explained. Up front, Santana chuckled, but held her tongue.

"So you are dangerous?"

"We're all dangerous, Rachel, given the right equipment," she laughed, "if I give you a gun, you become dangerous. Santana's dangerous behind the wheel of a car."

"Hey!" the Latina protested from her seat.

"The point is, we all have the potential to be. It's that potential which is scary," Quinn finished.

"So you're not actually dangerous, but you could be. Is that what you're implying?" Rachel asked. Quinn grinned, nodding.

"Exactly."

Silence settled over them, emphasised tenfold when Santana switched off the ignition. Turning in her seat, the Latina looked at Rachel.

"Time to go, wannabe Streisand."

"No."

Quinn groaned internally. Not again. Hadn't they just been through this? She wanted to shove Rachel out of the car and have Santana accelerate backwards as fast as possible, before the small girl could recover - cinema style. But this wasn't a film; the effects were too real. The storm still swirled around them, lighting scaring the sky, trying to find them in the sleepy town. Rain was starting to fall in fat droplets from the black clouds, landing with heavy thuds on the car roof. And Quinn was feeling more entrapped with every passing second.

She got out of the car, stalked around to the other side and wrenched open Rachel's door. The girl stared at her, brown eyes wide.

"Out," she demanded, allowing power to pool in her voice. She hated doing this - forcing people to act against their will. It was abuse of her power, and she knew it. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and either she forced Rachel, or the girl could get hurt. She wasn't taking that chance; too many had been hurt because of her - she wasn't adding another to the list.

"No," Rachel repeated, crossing her arms across her chest, a rigid look of determination splayed across her features. Quinn blinked, the two letter refusal ringing through her head. No? That wasn't possible.

"Huh?" she heard Brittany gasp from the front of the car. Quinn drew on all her power, letting it collect before speaking again.

"Rachel, get out of the car," she said, letting the compulsion wash over the other girl, willing her to emerge. Instead, Rachel's jaw clenched, her brow furrowed and she glared at Quinn.

"I said no. I'm staying."

The rain was coming down hard now, pelting Quinn on the head, soaking her pink hair. She stood there and let it. Rachel had refused. Even with every last bit of her power infusing her command, Rachel had refused. In all the time Quinn had lived, she'd never been more surprised.

"You refused," she stammered. A look of shock flickered over Santana's face, and Brittany looked as confused as Quinn felt.

"Yes, I refused. I'm part of this too, and I resent being left behind and discarded like a piece of trash," Rachel stated.

"Do we have to drag her out?" Santana growled, recovering herself.

"Wherever you're going, I'm coming," said Rachel. Quinn shook her head. The water dripped down the centre of her back, making her muscles tense as she tried to suppress the shiver which threatened to overcome her body. None of what was happening should have been happening

"Rachel Barbara Berry, you get yourself inside the house this instant!" a voice yelled from the porch. Rachel startled, jumping around in her seat to see Hiram glaring at them. Quinn could feel the daggers from his eyes even through the driving sheets of rain. She'd been hated by people before, but never by someone with whom she'd had so little contact. It wasn't as if she didn't deserve it, considering everything she'd put Rachel through over the years, but it was still suprising.

But Rachel still hadn't moved, despite her father's demand. Seeing the stubborness of his daughter, Hiram marched out to the car with complete disregard for the rain which soaked him through before he reached the door on the side opposite Quinn. He pulled it open with such force that the entire car rocked. He glared at Quinn over the top of the car before he bent down.

"You are getting out of this car and into the house right now, young lady. We are not negotiating. I am your father and as long as you live under my roof, you follow my rules," he said to his daughter, loud enough that Quinn could hear without having to bend forward.

"It's not your decision to make, daddy," she heard Rachel groan. Quinn's heart sunk further - if her father couldn't get her to move, then how did she think she even had a chance? She wanted to drag her out into the pouring rain, but she couldn't manhandle the girl in front of her father. She didn't need another reason for him to hate her.

"Rachel, you don't belong here. This isn't your battle," Hiram said, his voice softening so that Quinn had to strain to hear it. Her brow furrowed into a frown. Hiram had echoed the very thing she had said to Rachel. He straightened, meeting her eyes over the top of the car.

"Don't you dare drag her into your mess, Quinn Fabray. She doesn't belong in your world."

"Daddy? What do you mean?" Rachel asked from the backseat. Quinn was just as curious. The man didn't answer; his eyes were still locked on Quinn's.

"You hear me, Fabray? My daughter is not getting involved in this," he finally said, waving a hand at the storm.

"How do you know this has got anything to do with me?" Quinn said, lifting her chin and cocking an eyebrow at the man. Water collected at the tip of her nose, dripping down. And then again. And still Hiram didn't speak.

"Daddy, answer her."

"Out of the car, Rachel," he commanded instead, breaking eye contact with Quinn. The tension between them lessened, but didn't break. It tethered them, a chain binding them even though they both refused to admit the bond. Her curiosity burned in her, setting alight her lungs and stomach. He shouldn't have known the storm had anything to do with her. He shouldn't have even guessed.

"Daddy, answer her," Rachel demanded, getting out of the car to meet her father's eye. His resolve wavered for the briefest flicker of a second, but settled back over him just as quickly.

"Time to go," he said, although whether he meant himself and Rachel, or her and the other two in the car, Quinn wasn't sure. Hiram grabbed his daughter by the elbow, tugging her towards the house. She let him lead her a few steps before ripping her arm from his grip, and stumbling back towards the car. The breath Quinn had been holding came out as a hiss, the tension in her chest momentarily releasing, before returning with a stronger grip, crushing her lungs. The rain was making her nervous; she could almost feel the burning eyes of the Morrigan searching Lima - spotlights which would soon find her. She needed to leave; not another moment could be wasted. And yet, she was still there. Her conscience wouldn't let her slide into the backseat and drive away, leaving the brunette girl without proper understanding. She deserved Rachel's hate, but she was too afraid of bearing it; she didn't think she could.

"Rachel," she said, stepping forth to grab the other girl's arms, "Rachel, you have to listen. If it was safe for you to come, I'd take you with us. This isn't some crazy adventure. Morgana wants me dead, and she'll kill anyone she has to to get to me. I can't put you in that danger," she explained. Her face was mere inches away from the other girl's, the only thing between them was the rain; she could see the pattern in Rachel's irises.

Before her very eyes, Rachel's posture changed. The girl's shoulders sagged, the rigidity in her figure fled as the fight left her. With one smooth movement, she drew Quinn in close their soggy clothes sticking to each other.

"Be careful," Rachel whispered, her voice muffled against Quinn's shoulder. Quinn nodded, painfully aware that these marked the last of her moments in Lima, Ohio.

"We have to go," she muttered, extracting herself from the embrace. She slipped into the backseat, pulling the door closed. Hiram slammed shut the other one.

"Took your time, Q," Santana said, but her heart wasn't in the sneer; her voice betrayed her. They were leaving - this was home, and now they had to flee.

"I'm gonna miss her," Brittany voiced, staring out the window at Rachel, who gazed at them from the shelter of the porch. Quinn clenched her jaw. There were unanswered questions here, but there wasn't time enough to seek the answers.

"Drive," she ordered Santana, and as if she had been waiting for the word, she shifted the car into reverse and shot backwards, barely glancing back to check it was clear. The last view Quinn had of Rachel Berry was out of the corner of her eye - she refused to look back. She never looked back. She wasn't even tempted as the car sped along the still warm tarmac to the rain soaked horizon. At least, that's what she told herself.

Lightning tore another rift in the sky, bathing the world in a flash of white light. Quinn shook strands of pink hair out of her face, scattering waterdrops around the car.

"Hey, keep it to yourself, Q! I know you're leaving a wet mess in my backseat," Santana protested, while Brittany giggled, "but I'd appreciate it if you didn't get it everywhere else."

"Sorry," she muttered, not meaning the apology, her mind elsewhere. It was with the Morrigan, and the storm, it was with Rachel and how she resisted her power, it was with Hiram who seemed to know something. The gears in her mind ground against each other, remembering things she'd locked away a long time ago.

"Stop! STOP! Go back! We have to go back!" she shouted, realisation sliding like an ice cube down her back.

"Are you crazy? We're supposed to be getting away from here!" Santana exclaimed.

"No, we have to go back! Santana, turn the car around!"

Santana, groaning, swung the car in an arc, thankful for the deserted street. The sped back to the Berry house, Quinn leaning forward in her seat, eyes seeking the first sight of the residence. She was rewarded with the sight of a still whole front door, and unshattered windows. Yet, her heart wouldn't relax. Perhaps it was the constant thunder and incessant rain, but she was on edge.

As soon as the car stopped moving, she sprung out, dashing through the sheets of rain and burst through the front door, stepping uninvited into the house.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Finally! Another chapter! Enjoy what was written during boring lectures and equally as unproductive tutorials.**

Quinn strode through the house, leaving a trail of rainwater behind. Her eyes darted about, searching. The house was quiet, but for the beating of the rain and the cacophony of the storm. She burst into the kitchen, the voices of Brittany and Santana chasing after her.

"You can't just break into someone's house, Q!"

"She didn't break anything, the door was open," the disembodied voice of Brittany said. In other circumstances, Quinn would have laughed, but as it was, her teeth ground against each other, the muscle in her jaw twitching with the strain. Her eyes narrowed at the man standing in the middle of the kitchen.

"Nephilim!" she hissed.

"I thought you were fleeing," Hiram answered, calm, dunking a tea bag into a steaming mug. He didn't even look at her.

"I was. And then I realised how you knew the storm was related to me," she replied, slipping into the stool on the other side of the bench. Brittany and Santana appeared in the doorway, Lord Tubbington close behind. They paused there, standing close together, watching Quinn and Hiram Berry.

"It only took you four years," Hiram said, adding a teaspoon of sugar to his tea. He stirred it, smiling at Quinn, "All this time, I wondered if you were just playing dumb, but here you are, telling me you genuinely didn't know. Getting senile are we?"

"I wasn't looking," Quinn growled. She was tempted to punch the man in the face for his arrogance, imagining the satisfaction she could get from feeling his glasses shatter under her knuckles. But she held herself in check; some fantasies were better off not played out.

"I thought there weren't many Nephilim around," Brittany murmured behind Quinn. The pink haired girl turned to look at her, the other, and currently only, other blonde in the Unholy Trinity.

"There aren't Britt, but that doesn't mean they're all gone. As long as my people exist, so will his," she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the man.

"Now, now. Now need to point. That's rude," he admonished, as if he were talking to a young child. Looking at him again, Quinn saw the smile still plastered on his face. It was frozen, as if he couldn't remove it. She had to remind herself that punching him would not be a good idea. But the temptation still scratched at her knuckles, the palm of her hand itching. Her hand twitched, wanting to curl into a fist. She stopped it.

"You're hiding. From me?" she asked him. He grinned at her, almost maniacally. Quinn narrowed her eyes at him. Something about him just didn't sit right with her. The grin was too wide, his eyes too dull.

"From everyone," he replied, ending the statement with a laugh.

"Quinn…" Santana said softly. Quinn didn't miss the warning tone in the Latina's voice. They were on the same page.

"I know," she answered. Footsteps echoed off the floor, from the corridor outside, filling in the short silence following Hiram's laugh.

"Daddy? I heard voices," Rachel said, stopping short when she realised who was sharing the company of her father.

"Rachel, you need to stay back," Santana warned, moving to completely block the doorway.

"No. What's going on? Let me through!" she cried, pushing past the two former cheerleaders, and striding up to Quinn. She looked from the girl to Hiram, trying to discern what was happening. Hiram's lopsided grin grew even wider upon laying eyes on her.

"Rachel! Rachel baby. Baby, baby Rachel!" he exclaimed. Rachel took a step backwards, eyebrows knit together in a display of wariness and worry. With one glance, Quinn could see the brunette's hands begin to shake, tiny vibrations which made them tremor almost imperceptibly. Another look at her face made her reconsider the emotions which were written there. There was something in her eyes, something which looked a lot like fear.

"Baby, baby Rachel. The girl with the great voice; the star. The girl who knows much but who knows nothing. Rachel baby Berry, the girl who doesn't even know her own father!" Hiram giggled, bouncing up and down on his toes. It was as if the sight of his daughter completely unhinged him. His head shook from side to side, then stopped, cocked like a bird's. Quinn stared at his eyes; they were vacant; the spark of life still lit them, but the clarity of consciousness had fled.

"Rachel," she said, trying to hustle the girl further back from Hiram. Rachel took the steps Quinn prompted, distancing herself from the giggling form of her father.

"I know. It's happening again. I don't know how to stop it. Papa always knew. Where is he?" she ejaculated the last statement, exasperation colouring her voice.

"This has happened before?" Quinn asked, incredulous.

"What is it?" Brittany questioned. Rachel shook her head, as if trying to dispel a disturbing image.

"Possession," Quinn said simply.

"It hasn't happened for a long time. I thought, because it had been so long, that it wouldn't happen again. I thought it was over. I was young when it last happened. He got all giggly and started saying strange things. Papa took me upstairs and told me not to worry, that daddy was just trying to be funny. I sat up there in my room, and I heard thumps and then everything went quiet. Papa came in soon after and said goodnight, and that daddy was ok now. The next morning, it was like none of it had ever happened," Rachel murmured, her eyes glazed over as she retraced the memory. Quinn's heart went out to the girl; so much went on behind closed doors.

"What do we do, Q?" Santana asked, staring at Quinn for leadership. She ran a hand through her short pink hair, thinking. Exorcism, perhaps, but she liked the idea of talking to the demons - maybe she'd learn something of the life she'd so long been disconnected from. The other option was to wait for the other half of the Berry couple, Leroy, to return home. She eyed the man who still grinned maniacally, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if he were eager to dance.

"Tell me," she said, addressing the demons playing havoc on his body, "do you like it in there? Is it nice escaping from yourselves into the body of an ordinary man?"

Hiram giggled, the action making his body tremor and his eyes bulge. He nodded fervently.

"We like it here! Body warm. Body fun! But man not ordinary."

"No?" Quinn questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"No!" the demons cackled. Beside Quinn, Rachel flinched. "Man not man! Man Nephilim!"

"Why him? You can have anyone, so why him?" she said, voice cutting through the raucous laughter which echoed off the walls and the cupboards, making her head ring.

"Fun! And so easy! He lets us! All his pills make it so easy!"

"His sleeping pills," Rachel explained in a low voice when Quinn frowned at her, the question in her eyes.

"So that's it? It's just for fun? Y'all are crazy," Santana said. The statement sent Hiram into another fit of laughter.

"You're crazy! We're fun! This man so fun. So many secrets. And bad dreams, such bad dreams! Make him cry at night when no one can see!" With this, the demons cracked up again, the laughter making Hiram wheeze. Quinn was slightly worried; she didn't know whether they realised that a body could only take so much.

"Why don't you come out so we can talk? Leave the poor man alone. You've had your fun now," she encouraged, hoping they would take up the idea. Hiram bounced a little on the balls of his feet.

"No!" he screamed after a second's pause. "We like it here! Here is fun! Here is warm! Here is not cold like the Otherworld."

"Why don't they just take some blankets instead?" Brittany asked Santana behind Quinn. She ignored them, focusing on Hiram. She opened herself up, allowing power to flood her, letting it crest in her blood, letting it ignite her cells, and when she was sure she could hold no more, she let it go in words, a command. She told the demons to get out of Hiram's body. The man quivered, his movements coming to a still. Then he started to shake, violently. His arms flailed about, knocking over the mug of tea he'd placed on the bench. It fell to the floor, shattering and sending splodges of hot liquid all over the tiles. He jerked, and something shadowy, indefinable burst from his chest. And then again. And again. He collapsed, limbs spreadeagle, in the vestiges of tea, and broken ceramic. With a cry, Rachel dashed over to him, feet crunching over the minuscule pieces of broken mug, and knelt over, placing a hand on his chest. Her other hand felt for a pulse.

"Thank god," she breathed. Quinn released the inhalation of air she'd been holding. She hadn't expected the worst, but she'd felt the tension anyway. She turned her attention to the grey shadows zooming around the ceiling.

"Hey! Hey! Stop! Materialise so I can talk to you!" she commanded, power still lacing her voice. The shadows stopped buzzing, settling and taking more solid forms. One sat upon the bench, crouched next to the tissue box. Another sat in the sink, while the third perched upon the top of the cupboard. They looked very much alike; snub nosed faces, bulging eyes, skin bare and black, like leather. At first glance, they looked like wingless gargoyles, as though they ought to be sitting on Gothic cathedrals, guarding the sanctuary from evil.

"Now," said Quinn, "tell me why you're here."

"Fun!" the one in the sink cried, and the other two giggled - high pitched sounds, almost like dolls'.

"To play with the Nephilim and the crack in his mind!" expanded the one on the bench, more solemnly than they had seen the demons act so far.

"What do you mean the crack in his mind?" Quinn prodded, gently, for fear of sending it back into a fit of giggles. But it seemed to realise that its words were now a matter of importance.

"Up here," it said, pointing to its head, waddling closer, as if imparting a great secret, "he's broken up here."

"Can you tell me how?" Quinn asked. The others were quiet, engrossed by the creature and what it was saying. Santana was frowning, as if she didn't understand a thing, and Brittany had her head cocked slightly to one side, as though listening to silent words that nobody else could here.

"Broken! Cracked! Too many secrets. Too many bad dreams."

"Do you know if I can fix it?"

"No! No fixing! He's broken forever!" the demon on the cupboard giggled. The one on the bench shot it a look that Quinn was sure was identical to the one she gave Finn that time he suggested Drizzle as a name for their baby; such a long time ago, it felt - lifetimes away, almost. She pushed it from her memory. The demon turned back to her, eyes wide. The corners of its mouth were turned down, its forehead creased with a hundred little wrinkles.

"No fix. Broken," it said sadly, "but still working!" it continued, brightening, "still working!"

"What does that mean? How can something broken still work?" Rachel asked, a tear sliding down her face. From the streaks down her face, it looked like that wasn't the first one she'd shed so far. Nor was it likely to be the last. Her hand was still on Hiram's heart. Quinn could see it rise and fall with every one of the man's breaths. She gazed at him, his eyes closed, worlds away from them there in the kitchen, trying to puzzle out what the demon's words meant. But it was Brittany who spoke, breaking the confused silence.

"Sad," she said to the demon, who nodded enthusiastically. Brittany grinned at it.

"He doesn't mean broken in the head. He means a broken heart," she explained. For the life of her, Quinn had no idea how Brittany knew that the demon was a male, let alone what it had meant.

"What? Britt that doesn't make any sense. The thing was pointing at its head. I saw it. It was definitely its head," Santana said, frowning. Trying to prove it to them, Brittany pointed to her heart. The demon shook his head, placing a finger to the side of his skull.

"See!"

"No, he means heart," Brittany assured, confident. She smiled at the demon again.

"How do you know?" asked Rachel from the floor.

"He doesn't think like us. We think emotion comes from the heart, but it doesn't. It actually comes from the brain. We just like to romanticise things," she explained. The three of them blinked at the blonde girl, amazing. "What?" she shrugged, "I know stuff too."

"You're a genius!" Santana exclaimed, pulling her into a hug.

"But why does daddy have a broken heart?" Rachel wondered out loud.

"Because he's lonely," a voice said. All seven of then in the room turned in surprise. Leroy Berry stood in the hallway behind Brittany and Santana.

"But he has us. How can he be lonely?"

"Because he's not like us."

"What do you mean? I…I don't understand," Rachel stammered.

"He's a Nephilim," Quinn stated quietly.

"A what?"

"A Nephilim. When an angel and a human have a baby, the baby is a Nephilim," Brittany explained, chiming in.

"So, daddy isn't…human?" Rachel asked, hesitating. The words were having trouble sinking in. Quinn could see the uncertainty in Rachel's eyes.

"Not entirely," Leroy affirmed.

"And neither are you," Quinn interjected. Rachel's jaw dropped at the words. Both she and Leroy stared at Quinn, one with confusion in her eyes, the other with anger in his. Quinn licked her lips. When did her mouth get so dry? For a brief flicker of a second, she wondered how she was there in the Berry house, digging up family secrets, when she was supposed to be getting as far away from the city as possible. The muscle in Leroy's jaw twitched. She didn't want to be the one to break the news - it wasn't her responsibility. But the man whose responsibility it was, was lying on the floor in a pool of cold tea, unconscious. And so it fell to Quinn; at this point, the truth couldn't be hidden. Dark secrets were coming to light, and the Unholy Trinity weren't the only ones with skeletons in their closets. She took a breath.

"Do you remember when you said you didn't know which of your dads was your biological father because they mixed their sperm together and impregnated Shelby with a turkey baster?" she began. Rachel nodded, and Quinn wondered how much of that Rachel actually believed. As if the turkey baster didn't indicate that part of it was a lie. She continued, "well, I know."

"How? You can't possibly know without a paternity test."

"Nephilim can resist an angel's power because of their shared DNA," Quinn said.

"Yes," Rachel replied, nodding to show that she was following.

"I tried to use my power on you while we were in the car," Quinn continued. Rachel's face displayed her irritation now; she wasn't connecting the dots.

"Yes, and? I don't see how this has anything to do with anything," she exasperated, impatient with Quinn and her reluctance to spell it out for her.

"And you resisted, Rachel."

The girl blinked, brown eyes taking in Quinn's last sentence. They widened as it registered, a truth, hidden in the darkest corners of her soul, revealing itself. Her eyebrows shot up, mouth parting with the realisation.

"Oh!" she breathed.

"You're one of us!" Brittany cried, breaking the tension and pulling Rachel into a hug. Santana's eyes narrowed at Rachel until she and Brittany broke apart. The demons giggled from their various places. But Rachel, Leroy, Quinn and Santana were quiet. Quinn's thoughts were back in the Lima Heights Adjacent garage, the intangible magic of Morgana pervading the space, probing them. If Rachel had Nephilim blood, which she clearly did, then she wasn't as invisible as Quinn had first assumed. In fact, she was just as visible as any of the Unholy Trinity. And right now, standing in the Berry kitchen, they were like a beacon in the storm, a neon sign saying "here I am!".

Rachel took a couple of steps back from the rest of them, as if trying to distance herself from the revelation. She caught sight of Hiram, still prostrate on the floor. In that second, she crumbled; it was like everything fell into place and the stress was too much to bear, so she cracked. Tears ran down her cheeks, fast, hot, leaving trails along the planes of her face. Quinn could see her trying to hold it together, to put back the pieces of herself which had spilled out all over the floor, fallen amongst broken ceramics and puddles of tea. But she couldn't. She sobbed, breath ragged, uneven. Everything she'd known to be true had been turned on its head. Quinn pitied her, and something else too. She considered for a moment. Guilt; that's what it was. If it hadn't been for her, Rachel would have gone on with her life, blissfully ignorant of the Otherworldly blood flowing through her veins.

On the floor, Hiram stirred, coughing back into consciousness. Rachel snatched back her hand from his chest, as he struggled to take his first few breaths.

"Rachel," he murmured, spotting her. She smiled - the kind of a smile that only heartbreak can produce; watery eyes and knitted eyebrows, and corners of the mouth which struggle to stretch upwards. Hiram sat up, slowly, like an old man whose muscles don't quite work properly anymore, looking at the destroyed mug, seeing the demons, as well as his uninvited guests and husband. His face crumpled, his breath escaping him in an "oh".

"Daddy is it true?" Rachel asked him, placing a hand on his cheek, pulling his face towards her.

"Rachel, now's not the time," Leroy warned, but his daughter wasn't listening.

"You're a Nephilim, and I'm half Nephilim." For a tense moment, the man didn't answer, the only sound the breathing of nine beings in the room. Hiram, broke eye contact with his daughter, looking down at his hands. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

"We were going to tell you," Leroy spoke up, "but we didn't know how to bring it up. Or how to explain it all. And god knows, honey, the time never seemed right."

"We were thinking on your eighteenth birthday. We thought you might be ready then," added Hiram, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"I am eighteen, daddy."

"I know. We couldn't bring ourselves to ruin your day."

Quinn stood there amid this family confession, feeling out of place. She wasn't supposed to be there - this wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to be halfway to the middle of nowhere by now, fleeing for the umpteenth time from those who forever followed her. Even as she thought this, she became aware of the quiet. The storm, the raging, howling, vehement storm had all but disappeared. No wind rattled the windows, no thunder echoed in the sky, and the rain, though still falling, had lost its violence. To anyone else, it would look as though the storm had simply worn itself out. But Quinn knew better. She shivered.

"Ah," she breathed.

"What? What is it?" Rachel asked.

"Q? What is it?"

Quinn, looking them each in the eye, grimaced. She fortified herself, taking a deep breath, reaching that calm place within herself, fighting off the fast rising panic.

"I hope you're prepared for guests."

Before the implication of the words have even been comprehended, there was the unmistakable sound of shattering glass.


	4. Chapter 4

Quinn's heart dropped like a stone at the sound of breaking glass. It only meant one thing. Unconsciously, she straightened her shoulders, held her head higher and slipped easily into the role of commander, as though it were a second skin wore beneath her regular one, ready to be made use of at a moment's notice. While everyone shrank away from the noise, she stepped forward, grim determination set in her face. Her tattoo rippled, wings threatening to burst out.

She heard the footsteps on the floor, the tread she was uncomfortably familiar with. They got closer, clearer, never faltering, knowing exactly how to navigate the Berry house. She could feel the power emanating from the approaching figure; tendrils of magic reaching out, probing, exploring, testing, discovering. Her skin prickled at the contact. The demons started chattering, fleeing as the power grew stronger. Within a blink of an eye, they were gone, returned to the safety the Otherworld. Quinn had no such escape route; for better or for worse, she was trapped here, forced into this confrontation.

The footsteps rang out across the kitchen and a figure of a woman appeared in the doorway which lead to the living. Catching the eye of Quinn, she grinned, perfect teeth flashing.

"Hello beloved."

Quinn bit her lower lip. Hard. The metallic taste of blood tinged her tongue. But it was better than the retort she was going to let fly. A snigger broke out behind her. She resisted the urge to turn and glare at Santana.

"And all this time, I thought I was the only one in the closet! Quinn Fabray, you secretive bitch," the Latina laughed, gasping for breath in between words. Quinn growled - she was old, very old; of course she had a past.

"I get lonely," she muttered, blushing. She could feel only all eyes in this in the room on her, the five people behind her burning holes into her back. The Morrigan let a bark of laughter.

"Ha! Is that the lie you're telling these days? Don't pretend I was the only choice you had! Merlin practically drooled over you."

"No he didn't. He was busy mooning after Vivien," replied Quinn, but didn't meet anyone's eyes, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She couldn't see them, but she could imagine the looks on the faces of her friends, and the Berry men. Shock for most of them, and a self satisfied smirk on Santana's face.

"Before she trapped him in a cave. Poor fool. He would have been safer if he'd only had eyes for you," Morgana added, rolling her eyes, "men."

"I resent that," Hiram muttered under his breath, but deliberately loud enough that the witch could hear him.

"Of course you do," Morgana said, flashing her perfect teeth again. She stepped forward, slightly closing the gap between herself and Quinn, raven black cloak trailing behind her, reflecting the light in a deep purple. Quinn gave a half smile at the sight of it.

"Still have that cloak, I see."

"Naturally. It was a gift from someone very precious to me," Morgana said softly. They lapsed into silence, memories transporting them back to a long lost time, of youth and laughter and flight. It was a far cry from the present.

"How far we've come," Morgana whispered, as though reading Quinn's thoughts. She nodded.

"I thought she wanted to kill you," Rachel chimed in, breaking the nostalgic atmosphere. Quinn's flesh crawled - that was a reminder she could have done without. But Morgana laughed.

"I used to. Once. This time I'm trying to recruit you." Six pairs of eyes swivelled to her in bewilderment. Quinn raised an eyebrow.

"Come again?" Santana said. Morgana smiled. No, not smiled, leered - there was something almost malicious in that expression. Quinn felt her stomach plummet - that smile took her back hundreds of years, spitting her back into a memory where Morgana, physically the same, but younger, had given her the exact same smile, promising that when the war threatened to break over their heads, she'd find her again and coerce her into joining her side. It had been so long, she had almost forgotten it. With Morgana before her, it all flooded back, as clear as if it had been yesterday.

"It's time?" she asked softly, eyes seeking Morgana's blue ones. The other woman's grin grew wider, more malicious.

"It's time. And you are yet to pick a side, Quinnie."

"So you're here to help me choose," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest, appraising the other woman with an up and down look.

"No, I'm here to remind you of what you already chose, centuries ago. They call you one of Fallen for a reason, no?"

Quinn struggled to remember. There'd been something, she was sure, at some point in her life, a promise made beneath a canopy of stars, in the naivety and impulsiveness of youth, not meant to be kept. Trying to find the memory was like trying to find the key to a door when you had hundreds of keys and only one lock; she was so close, yet so far. She ran through her memories of Morgana, Morgain, Morgan le Fay, Morrigan, sifting to find the right one. And there it was, waiting patiently to be discovered, and it all fell into place.

It was centuries ago, before the time of America, before easy travel, before anything recognisable as technology. It was the time of Uther Pendragon, and the last of his wars. Quinn sat atop a hill, black wings folded close, feathers catching in the breeze as it swept over the English countryside. She watched hundreds of tiny flickering lights burning in the plain, heard the calls of men, the faint sound of swords being sharpened, chain mail being tended to, horses being fed. They were Uther's army, and they were preparing for battle whilst, unbeknownst to them, their leader rode off into the night to bed the wife of their enemy; Igraine, the woman who started the war. Why were wars always started over women? Quinn wondered, recalling a similar, yet different war, Greeks camped out on the shores of Troy, plotting a way to force their way past the great walls.

"I thought birds didn't fly at night," she said as a flutter of wings sounded behind her. A hand touched her shoulder, and a pair of lips found her cheek, leaving a faint tingle of heat.

"But I'm a woman as much as a bird. And we women love the night. The moon is our goddess, after all," Morgana, or as she had been known then, Morgan, said. Quinn didn't have to see her to tell the other woman was smiling - she could hear it in her voice. Her fingers found Morgana's, wrapping them tightly in her own.

"I thought you were my goddess," she murmured, staring out across the field.

"That's right," Morgana's voice whispered in her ear, before she placed another kiss on Quinn's face, just below the ear. Her next sentence was not so flirtatious.

"You know what this is, don't you," she said, more a statement than a question, "this is your side, their king conceiving the next heir of light in the bed of his sworn enemy. This is the treachery you expect to support when the storm finally breaks?"

"There's no such thing as a flawless state. Even we aren't perfect. Humans do as they do, just as we do what we do."

"But this is treachery beyond what even we would do."

"He loves her," Quinn stated.

"And she loves Gorlois! She is married to Gorlois! And yet tonight, she shall lie with Uther," Morgana growled.

"Have you heard the rumours? Uther shall go to Igraine under the guise of Gorlois. She does not know that he is not her husband."

"It is that fool, Merlin's fault! He meddles in affairs bigger than he. He ought to be stopped!"

"By whom, Morgan? By us? He has never listened to our reasoning. He thinks because he is one of the prophesised, he does not have to listen. We tried being reasonable. Remember Cassandra, remember Lilith; the threads of time and fate are out of her hands. It's not our time yet," Quinn murmured. Beside her, Morgana twitched in irritation. Quinn smiled a little; the other woman always had been impatient. She glanced at her, seeing tiny pinpricks of light dancing in her eyes, reflections of the far away fires. Morgana blinked and they were gone, face turned to Quinn's.

"Promise that when the time arrives, you shall reconsider your alliance with them. You may be an angel, but you are Fallen - you could walk the same path as us. As I. Please, promise me," she said in hushed tones, but Quinn, familiar with this woman, who was friend, lover, and sometimes enemy, recognised the plea in her voice, even as she fought to cover it. Her heart ached for her. She prised the fingers open of the hand she held and placed a kiss on the palm.

"I promise."

"Good," Morgana said, giving her that wicked smile, "because one day I'm going to remind you of that promise."

Back in the present, Quinn stared at Morgana, the ghost of the memory still playing in her mind. Once, she had loved the woman standing before her. An old wound in her shoulder twinged as the thought crossed her mind - a physical reminder of their past. Quinn bit her lip and closed her eyes - she hadn't dwelt on these things for a long time; she didn't want to start now.

"I didn't choose a side. I promised I'd reconsider, not that I would change," she said. The look on Morgana's face was pure disappointment; Quinn gave a sad smile. "I have a long memory."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten," Morgana sighed. The lines in her youthful face suddenly seemed deeper, more numerous. Her shoulders sagged, as if she were Atlas, bearing the weight of the world on them. She seemed an old, old woman then, world weary, bones made brittle by years of toil, eyes sunken from too many disappointments. Quinn recognised herself in the posture. They had lived too long; the both of them. Most people would kill to be able to live forever, but not they. They had tasted eternity, and now wished to be free of it.

But perhaps their time was near. If Morgana had come to recruit Quinn, then the time of their reckoning was fast approaching. The long dead or lost would return, the world would shake and the bones of the buried would rattle in fear. The living would cower and cry, and pray to gods they claimed didn't exist. And all the while, the Earth will have become a battleground; the final battleground, and the permanent resting place of many. Quinn had known this day was coming, but she hadn't expected it so soon.

"The time has finally arrived," it was almost a question which came from her mouth, more of a sad resignation. She looked over at her friends, the people who had become a family to her. They were going to get caught in this - there was no choice now.

"You won't reconsider?" the Morrigan asked. There was a tiny flicker of hope in her eyes, guarded, aware of the possibility of a negative answer. Quinn heard it rise in the other woman's voice, unbidden, unheard by anyone except her, who knew the cadences of that silky voice so well. She faltered, and for a moment, refused to speak.

"What are we fighting for?" she murmured softly, not finding any other words, though she scrambled in her mind, scratching the walls, trying to find one, any one, which would be appropriate. She couldn't comprehend it anymore. Once, it had all made so much sense, but now, with hindsight in her favour, she couldn't see the point. They were the gods, the idols, the wise - remnants of ancient civilisations. They didn't have a place in the world anymore. No one knew them, no one needed them. The people were their own gods now. While they had been hibernating, humankind had been advancing. They had realised that their gods no longer heard their prayers, so they abandoned them, and created a life where there was no room for them to exist.

"Power. Money. A chance to take the world back to the old days," Morgana replied and Quinn shook her head at her. They didn't understand. Morgana was part of the Old Generation; like the elderly of any society, they looked back on the way things used to be, glorifying it, moaning and complaining about the current state of affairs. Only, the Old Generation, unlike the mortal elderly, had the power to change it back, to take over and bend humankind to their will. Quinn wondered if they realised that while they were gone, humankind had developed their own sense of the world. They were still lost and unsure, but they'd stopped turning to religion and the elder ways for comfort. Science was the new faith.

"Is that a no, then?"

"Yes," Quinn nodded, "it is. I'm sorry, but I can't. Things changed. I changed."

"When the time comes, you'll be running back to us, begging to be accepted," Morgana predicted. Quinn didn't think so, but held her tongue. There wasn't a point in arguing now.

"So you're going to fight with them," it was a statement, not a question, but Morgana paused, as though waiting for a response.

"I don't think I want to fight for anyone," Quinn replied and saw the raven haired woman's blue eyes widen. She shook her head in disbelief.

"Just when I imagined I knew you, you go and say something extraordinary. Try it. But I predict you choosing a side eventually. We all must."

Quinn did nothing but smile in response. Perhaps Morgana was right, and there was no way to get through the impending war without picking a side, but she wasn't ready to have to choose. She'd been too disconnected, trying too much to live like a human - an angel amongst mortals, surprisingly inconspicuous. If she'd evaded the rest of her kind so far, then she imagined she could pull it off for a little while longer. The first vague tendrils of an idea began to creep into her mind, twisting themselves around her axons and dendrites, forcing synapses to fire faster. She let it simmer, ready to come back to it. Good things come to those who wait, after all.

Morgana rolled her eyes at Quinn, noticing that her last little speech had had no effect on the pink haired girl. For a moment, Quinn wondered whether she would try one last time to convince her, but no, the blue eyed, black haired woman just licked her lips and smiled, a wicked smile, and one that Quinn was not unfamiliar with. It may have been a long time, but she could still read Morgana, and she knew exactly what that smile entailed.

"The pink suits you. Punk suits you," the witch said, holding Quinn's gaze, inviting her to drown into her blue eyes. Quinn answered with a smile of her own, the kind of smile that said 'I know what you're up to'. When Morgana opened her mouth to speak again, Quinn cut her off.

"Not in front of the children, dear," she said, waving a hand in the direction of the crew standing close together behind her. Morgana laughed, a genuine laugh, straight from the heart. It filled every corner of the kitchen, the fragile china rattling slightly from the sound waves.

"You always knew how to play me just right, Quinn Fabray. It's not fair that you have the power to arouse me, diffuse me, and make me laugh with a statement meant to irritate me. It's what I miss about having you around."

Quinn let out a small laugh of her own, to cover the embarrassment of Morgana's openness and the fact that she had been worried that the sentence would provoke Morgana into a state of anger, rather than the laughing woman before her now. In the presence of the Berry men, it seemed disrespectful to allow Morgana to continue her seduction of Quinn, especially when their daughter was present.

Hiding behind Brittany's legs, Lord Tubbington gave a loud meow, breaking the tension of the moment, and Quinn gave an actual laugh at his timely reminder of his presence.

"Oh! Lord Tubbington, splendid to see you again!" Morgana cried upon seeing him. But she quickly turned her attention back to Quinn. "I spent all this time looking for you, whipping up a storm, and now I'm expected to leave you? Such a waste of effort."

"I didn't ask for any of this, so yes. Also, the storm wasn't necessary. I have a phone you know," Quinn said, glancing back and forth between Santana and Morgana to prove her point without having to directly say it. But just for good measure she muttered "what is it with you people?"

Santana's snigger retriggered her itching urge to punch something, while Morgana's outright bark of laughter did nothing to alleviate it. She glared at the two of them equally until they stopped. Morgana wiped away at her eye, clearing her throat before continuing.

"Well, if it must be, it must be. We shall meet again, of course. I do hope you make the right choice, Quinnie. After all these years, it would be a shame if you didn't," the witch said, concern touching her voice, reaching out to play Quinn's heartstrings. Quinn didn't let it. Yes, there was genuine concern there, but she also recognised Morgana's final attempt to coerce her onto her side, a lingering image to lure her when the going got tough. On the outside, she played along, just enough for Morgana to let her go. The woman flashed one final smile before announcing "and now, the time for the disappearing act. Houdini didn't learn it all on his own, you know," and with a flutter of black feathers and a smell of damp earth, she vanished - gone, as though some invisible hand had simply pulled her from the space and transported her elsewhere.

Quinn blinked a few times; it seemed that Morgana had learnt some new tricks in the time since they had last seen each other. Logical, and yet, still mildly surprising. Quinn had almost forgotten that while she had been living her life, Morgana was somewhere living her own. And from the sound of it, not all the intervening years had been spent in Avalon, as she'd believed. Stepping forth, she picked up the single black feather lying on the floor - the only thing left to indicate that the entire encounter hadn't been a figment of her imagination. The feather was soft in her hand, brushing her fingertips, so soft she could barely feel it. She turned to face the others, who had thankfully stayed mute the entire duration of the conversation. Hiram shuddered at the sight of the feather.

"I hate those things," he said, voice barely controlling deep revulsion. Quinn understood.

"Reminds you of who you are and what you'll never have, doesn't it?"

"If you must know, yes. Now get it out of my sight!" he spat. Quinn pocketed the feather; a keepsake.

"I thought you just didn't like birds, and that's why you hated feathers," Rachel said, the question there, but not directly asked.

"Birds, bats, butterflies. I hate them all. Now that you know about me, I imagine you'll be able to put two and two together. But can we stop now? This is not a conversation I want to have," Hiram said with anger. Leroy put his hand on his husband's arm, a sign for him to calm down.

Obediently, Rachel obliged. Perhaps this time she sensed that it would be bad to push too far with another question. Quinn was glad. Too many secrets of this family had been revealed today - this one didn't also need to be voiced. To voice it would make it a reality, to set in stone the vulnerability of Hiram Berry, and it was unfair to do so. Sometimes it was better to ignore pain.

"So," she said, catching everyone's attention, "who's up for that road trip?"


	5. Chapter 5

The voice of Santana's car thrummed beneath them, an aggressive cadence which rattled their insides, causing them to leap each time it growled, gears shifting and acceleration increasing. Rain, the vestige of Morgana's storm, splattered across the roof and windshield, echoing inside the small space. There was no comfort in the sound; it pulled to the forefront of their memories the reminder that they headed into danger, that at the end of the road, they might meed their feared friend, Death, whom they'd been fastidiously avoiding all these past years. Complacent, they had begun to think that he had forgotten them, passing their lives away in their small town, but it seemed to Quinn as though he had merely been biding his time to catch them at the right moment. Perhaps he had been observing them from afar for years, and now decided it was time for a proper introduction. Quinn stared out the window to the gloomy street; last time he tried to introduce himself, she had denied the request. She wondered how much longer that option would be available to her.

Horrific thoughts of wicked grins and sensual laughs filled her mind, constructing sets of darkness and of flame. She sank into them for a brief flicker of a moment, then, like a swimmer turning around at the end of their lane, pushed hard against the thoughts, using the momentum to propel her up and away from them. She would not dwell on the possibilities; she learnt once that her sanity depended on her ability to keep her imagination under control. She looked to her left.

Rachel sat there, staring out of her own window into the rain. Quinn wondered what the other girl saw there; certainly not demons and devils, she imagined. Rachel had fought with her fathers, the sound of their quarrel drifting through the open front door to wind around their ears of the Unholy Trinity as they waited at the car. Santana and Brittany had taken refuge from the rain , but Quinn, unable to entrap herself within the unmoving vehicle, leant against the hood, smoking a cigarette, ignoring the patter of rain as it slowly soaked her hair and clothing. She inhaled every time Rachel screamed, and exhaled whenever her fathers retaliated; it was an interesting beat to smoke to. But the argument was to no avail. The house had fallen quiet, letting the rain play its part in the soundtrack of the scene, before Rachel emerged, backpack slung over one shoulder. Hiram followed, slinking behind her on the grass, but made no attempt to stop her. Instead, his parting words had been to Quinn.

"Keep her safe."

She promised. He shook her hand. The pact was sealed. And Quinn was bound by her word that she would protect Rachel Berry, whatever the cost. And she would. The girl hadn't needed to be involved, but now she was, so Quinn would do what she could to keep her safe.

"Where are we even going, Q?" Santana asked from the front of the car, sparing a glance at Quinn.

"Just keep driving."

"When do we stop?"

"We don't. We drive until you can't, and then I'll take over. We sleep in the car. The only time we stop is for gas. And maybe food," Quinn replied, her voice tense and more harsh than she intended. She could feel the eyes of Rachel trained on her, and sensed the intent with which Brittany had listened to her response. Even Lord Tubbington seemed to pay attention, leaping onto the backseat and staring at her plaintively - his sharp eyes knowing. None spoke. Quinn went back to staring out the window, observing as suburbia gave way to open areas of grass, dotted with livestock and crops. Houses and crumbling fences fled past. Soon enough, the sound of Brittany's deep, even breathing penetrated the air. It was punctuated by the occasional soft snore. Quinn smirked.

"I'm glad you're the one who has to put up with the snoring," she said, watching out of the corner of her eye as Santana's face grew dark and murderous.

"Watch yourself, Quinn Fabray, afores I ends you," the Latina warned. Quinn couldn't wipe the smirk; for all Santana pretended to be invulnerable, she had her Achilles' Heel - a very blonde, lithe, cat loving Achilles' Heel. Quinn was happy for her and proud - it was difficult parading around as though you were immortal when everyone recognised the charade and knew the chink in your armour.

"You probably think it's cute," Quinn teased, and even from the other side of the car, she could feel Santana glowering. The Latina said nothing. Quinn left it there; she'd toed the line and knew it was time to step back now. Rachel had remained silent throughout the exchange, but observed, absorbing the dynamic between the two players she'd just nominated herself to play alongside of in the game of good against evil. Quinn wondered what really went through her head sometimes; for all her outbursts during school, the girl was essentially still a mystery to her.

Green signs loomed ahead, informing them of directions, then melted into the distance, a never ending conveyer belt of "you can go here" but never telling you precisely where you were. And yet, Quinn gave no directions, letting Santana navigate the empty highway. Once, they stopped for food and gas, Santana nudging Brittany awake when they stopped.

"Q, be honest, where are we going? Do you even know?" Santana asked as they ate. Quinn shook her head, her eyes darting around the diner, taking in its occupants - a couple at one table near the window, a group of four at a booth, silent but for their chewing, and a lone man, middle aged, diligently removing the pickle from his burger. He looked disgruntled, offended that the pickle was there in his food, when he clearly thought it had no right to be.

"Hell," Quinn responded, "at least, that's where I'm headed when all of this is over."

"Enough with the melodrama already," Santana snapped, rolling her eyes. Quinn could feel her frustration; it almost rolled off her in waves, permeating the air and reminding Quinn that she was keeping secrets. But she hadn't been entirely joking when she'd said Hell.

Her hazel eyes flashed around the room again, taking in, absorbing. The couple were smiling at each other across the table, holding each other's hands - the apotheosis of love. The group had started an argument amongst themselves; two boys talking loudly while another boy and a girl tried to defend their opinions. The middle aged man had begun to eat, satisfied with himself for removing his pickle from his burger. Quinn looked at him for a few seconds longer. He chewed slowly, deliberately. Like someone savouring their meal. Or like someone trying to eavesdrop on another's conversation. Instinctively, Quinn's hand curled into a ball. She glanced at the half finished plates of food in front of her friends. She swallowed the urge to tell them to get to the car, forcing it past the lump in her throat and down into her stomach; it churned up the food she's just ingested. For a moment, she thought her lunch might make a reappearance; thankfully, a couple of deep breaths disabled the urge. She pushed her plate away, just in case.

"Are you gonna eat that?" Brittany asked, clearing her own plate and looking longingly at Quinn's.

"Go ahead," Quinn gestured. Every so often, her eyes would dart back to the man who still thoroughly chewed each bite before swallowing, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down each time the food made its way down his oesophagus. Quinn carefully kept the conversation at small talk, cautious of what might other wise be revealed. The back of her neck prickled in wariness, the delicate hairs standing on end. She ran a hand over them, willing them to lie flat again.

She almost breathed a sigh of relief when the others decided they had eaten their fill. With a sense of wariness, she was the last to leave the table, meeting the eye of the young man on his date, who glanced up as the four of them stood and trooped out of the diner, feet shuffling. The middle aged man didn't even do that, Quinn noted. It unnerved her almost as much as if he had. She hurried the other girls to the car.

"Get in Santana. Drive. Quickly," she quietly urged as they approached the vehicle. She expected a quip from the Latina, but none came; the panic in her voice must have been too obvious. She could feel it rising in her chest, causing a wake of destruction as it did so. Her insides sloshed about and her chest tightened; she had trouble breathing. It had been a long time since she'd been so panicked about something so small as someone eating slowly. She took another deep breath to calm down. She was Quinn Fabray, and one of the Fallen. She'd been a fugitive for as long as she could remember - there was no need to let this panic seep into her heart and unsettle her. She'd faced worse dangers, closer calls. She leant her head back against the headrest as Santana drove off, careful not to accelerate to quickly, lest the squeal of tyres along asphalt attracted unwanted attention.

When the car hit the highway, easing into a smooth, swift speed, the road disappearing below them and the landscape flashing past, Quinn finally felt the panic dwindle from her body; it was as though the belt which had been restricting her breathing was finally coming undone. The tension in the back of her head eased and she finally unclenched her fist. She opened her palm and saw the crescent marks from her nails embedded into her palm.

"Going to explain, Fabray?" Santana enquired, finally breaking the nervous quiet. To Quinn's left, Rachel sat, staring at her, seeking the same answer as Santana. Even Lord Tubbington gave a soft meow, as if reaffirming the question.

"The man eating the burger looked suspicious," she said.

"For real, Q? You were freaked by an old guy eating a burger?" Santana exclaimed, the disbelief rising in her voice, "Are you always going to be this paranoid now? Soon we'll be running from shadows."

"You should always be afraid of shadows," Quinn murmured under her breath, but out loud said, "my life is owed to my paranoia. Trust me. Better to run than to risk dying."

"Fine. But next time, don't be surprised if we take just a little longer to leave," growled Santana, disgruntled at the whole affair. Quinn could hear the intended eye roll in the girl's tone of voice, even if she couldn't physically see it. She shook her head. They didn't understand. Vigilance and so called paranoia were the things which were going to ensure that they were all alive to see their next birthdays.

"San, listen to Quinn. We have to be careful," Quinn heard Brittany say softly to the Latina as they drove. She was thankful for the blonde girl and the ability she had with Santana.

The road rolled on by, the days flew past, a blur, but for a few pit stops of clarity. Nothing much changed, except that one day, Quinn insisted that she drive from then on. After a bout of protesting from Santana, Quinn found herself in the front seat, slowly pushing down on the accelerator. Rachel sat in the seat to her right, and Santana and Brittany were sitting close together in the backseat. Lord Tubbington, not to be forgotten, had curled into Brittany's side. What none of the passengers realised was that Quinn had turned them around, and that they were now heading in the same direction they had come from. More days passed. Eventually, they passed a sign, weathered and worn, by the side of the road. _Welcome to Hell, MI_, it stated. Santana, the only one awake other than Quinn, raised her eyebrows.

"You weren't kidding when you said you were going to Hell," she remarked. Quinn shrugged. "Q, why are we here?"

"Visiting an old friend. And yeah, I know, the irony of the name is not lost on me. But she always liked being a bit dramatic," Quinn replied, earning another raise of Santana's eyebrows.

"Another one of your lovers?"

"Hardly," Quinn snorted, trying to control her laughter and drive straight, "her name's Lilith."

"Lilith, Lilith," muttered Santana to herself, trying to place the name. Legends ran through her mind, myths, rumours, whisperings on the winds. "Lilith, as in Hell's Lilith? Adam's first wife, the one who was made his equal and then decided she didn't like the way things were run, so pissed off down to live with Satan as a demon?"

Quinn laughed. "That's her. Told you the name was ironic," she said, jerking her thumb back in the direction of the road sign, "but as for the legends, they're not true. There wasn't an Adam, for a start, and there isn't actually a Hell, surprisingly enough. She's spent most of her life as a gypsy, migrating from place to place, never with a real home. She's a kind of nomad, if you like. Last I heard of her, she was here, running an occultist shop. No one even batted an eyelid, the place is so full of weird shops and traditions, playing up to the whole Hell theme."

"A real demon in a real Hell," murmured Santana, "But what is she really? Why is she important? You can't have dragged us all the way here for nothing. By the way, you know Hell is only about three hours drive from Lima? What the hell was with all that driving us around half the country?"

"Two and a half hours, actually. And the point was to make sure we weren't followed. Yes, I know, it looks like I'm paranoid, but trust me Santana, you can't be too cautious," she said, holding up her hand to stop the tirade she knew was going to come spilling from the Latina's mouth. "As for Lilith, she's very old. She's a Lamia. Kind of like a vampire," Quinn explained, catching sight of Santana's expression in the rear view mirror, "nothing to worry about though. She has the gift of prophesy. That's how she made her living, all these years. I wonder if she still does that. Perhaps, from time to time. I need to ask her some questions."

"Is this the same Lilith you mentioned to Morgana?" Santana asked, and Quinn paused, remembering the conversation which seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Yes."

"What's really going on here, Q? Some witch turns up, you starting throwing around the names of people from legends as if you knew them, you talk about this battle between good and evil, and now you're running from shadows. I trust you, I've always trusted you, you were always the leader of our little group, our Unholy Trinity, even if we never said it out loud, but it would be nice to know a little something something, you know?" Santana said, throwing her palms into the air and giving a helpless half shrug. Quinn felt guilt crashing down on her, annihilating her bravado. She sighed, tapping out a tuneless rhythm on the steering wheel. She took a left, cruising down a deserted street, the houses looking out at them, peering from darkened windows as their red car eased past.

"How much do you know about King Arthur?" she eventually said, breaking the silence, finding a place to begin her explanation.

"Golden boy of the dark ages. Married to Guinevere, who ran away with his best friend and screwed him over. Why?"

"That's not even the half of it. Arthur was the child of a union his father Uther, who was magically transformed by Merlin to look like Igraine's, the mother of Arthur, husband, Gorlois. He was illegitimate when he was conceived, but Uther had married Igraine by the time Arthur was born. Gorlois, by a cruel twist of fate, had died the same night Uther had bedded his wife. They'd gone to war with each other over her and in the end, Uther won. He almost gave up everything to be with that woman - his kingdom, the memory of his own late wife, his daughter. Morgan was twenty when all that happened, and she watched it with a growing bitterness in her heart. It had begun thriving there when she first heard that Uther was in love with Igraine, one summer when she was six years old and the king had hosted a feast, inviting other kings and their wives. He had been taken with her from the very first moment he set eyes on her.

"By the time he had won the war which ensued, Morgana, twenty years old, had her heart blackened by the roots of that bitterness. It hurt her to know that her father loved another woman more than he loved his own daughter. She still hasn't gotten over it, and that's why she decided to give rise to that storm and try seduce me back to her side of the game," Quinn murmured, pausing as Santana realised that the Morgan Quinn was speaking of was the Morgana who, recently, had burst into their lives with a crash of thunder and a flash of lightning, warning of the impending war. Her epiphany was cut short by Quinn continuing her recount of events. Santana sat riveted.

"She threw herself into the dark arts, into witchcraft, learning everything she could from anyone she met. God only knows how many nights she spent with the gypsies, the heretics, the insane, and the condemned, listening to their mumblings and ramblings, trying to pick the real from the delusional. She was young when we met, and I was old, very old, but she made me feel things I hadn't felt in a long time. But I digress. Arthur, her half brother, was the king of light, so she became mistress of the dark out of spite. Good and evil, it sounds so simple; one side wants to help the world, the other wants to destroy it. But it really isn't as clearly defined as that. The evil side isn't as evil as you may think, and the good isn't flawless either.

"Anyhow, Arthur grew, Morgan grew, each to their own. They both got married. Morgan had four boys who later went on to become knights at Arthur's court. Arthur had no children. His wife, Guinevere, fell in love with one of his knights, Lancelot, which proved to help in his downfall, but it wasn't the only thing. Arthur, trying to appease the population of his people who still followed the old Celtic religion, took part in one of their ceremonies, and as it happened, lay that night with his sister, Morgan. She bore a child, whom she called Mordred, and he became a knight of Arthur, but was also the one who gave him the final blow when Arthur's last battle dawned, injuring him beyond mortal help. Morgan had changed her mind about him by then, perhaps out of some sympathy, or because of a greater understanding of the universe, and her part in events, and with several others, accompanied him to the isle of Avalon, where he is said to be recovering, biding his time until he is called back to earth to finish what he started," Quinn finished, returning her concentration to her driving while Santana mulled things over in her mind. Quinn could hear her making contemplative noises.

"Something doesn't add up. When you first saw Morgana, you said she was the Morrigan. Now I may not be all that when it comes to myths and legends, but I know the Morrigan was a Norse goddess. But you said Morgana was young when you two met. It doesn't make sense," Santana thought out loud, hoping she was right and that she hadn't missed something.

"You're right. Do you believe in reincarnation?" Quinn smiled as Santana guffawed and spluttered.

"You aren't saying what I think you're saying, are you, Q?"

"Yep. Sure am."

"Bullshit, Fabray!"

"No bullshit. Truth. Morgana is the reincarnation of the Morrigan. She didn't know it when we first met. It wasn't until later, until she began to learn more about witchcraft, about past lives and began dabbling in it that she discovered who she really was. Somehow, and I don't know how, I asked her to spare me the details, she found out, and managed to tap into the consciousness of the Morrigan and everyone else she's ever been. Things changed between us then," Quinn recalled, nostalgia tinting her voice, "it was hard for me to reconcile the woman I was seeing, conscious of all her past lives, with the girl I knew, the one I'd fallen in love with somewhere along the way. I tried, and for a while it worked. But it was a relief for me when she left for Avalon with her brother. By then, things were a struggle. Things were falling apart. The world had seen the death of its first Golden Age as Arthur was transported away, and it's never really recovered to that glory. And apparently he's coming back, that's why Morgana returned. Arthur is meant to save the world, but Morgana and her side, the 'evil' side, if you will, don't want him to touch it. It's not a matter of creation and destruction, it's a matter of differing opinions. Arthur and his people always believed that everyone was redeemable, that they should all be given a chance to be saved, whereas Morgana argued that there was too much evil in the hearts of mankind, that they should be left to their own devices, whether they be saved or damned completely up to them. That's why they fight."

"And you're with Arthur? Isn't that what Morgana was saying? But she wanted you with her," Santana said, her thoughts struggling to keep up with the onslaught of myth becoming reality and a war she'd never seen being thrown at her. She hardly believed any of it, except that it was Quinn, and Quinn didn't make things like this up. Quinn was a dreamer, but she was also a realist - she would never spin a tale so elaborate. Besides that, Santana had her own proof that something was stirring, pulling at the strings of the universe, coming out of the mists at the periphery of reality. "God, it all makes sense now. That's why I've been feeling-" she broke off, biting her tongue.

"You've been feeling what? Santana! I need to know!" Quinn urged from her seat, turning back to glance at Santana as often as she dared.

"A disturbance in the Force," Santana finished lamely, her cheeks flushing. Quinn snorted.

"San, your Star Wars geek is coming out. A disturbance in the Force? I half expect you to shrivel and turn green at any second."

"Hey! Watch it! I blame Puckerman. Ever since he made me watch those movies, that's the only way I can think of the source of my power. It's much more convenient and mysterious than 'this thing that's always inside me that I can't name but helps me do things that no one else can'. It helps me feel like I know what I'm talking about if I call it the Force," Santana shrugged nonchalantly, but her flaming cheeks gave away her embarrassment at having been caught out at her reference. "So, anyway, it make sense now."

"Be ready for more disturbances. Trust me, things have only just started. Growing strong, the dark side is," Quinn smiled, trying to make the situation lighter with her Yoda impression. Despite how tacky it was, Santana giggled. But the mirth didn't last long. Beneath it, they both felt that the situation could turn serious, and dire, at any moment. They both shivered slightly at the thought.

Quinn pulled the car over outside a battered looking shop. A sign, its paint flaking, informed them that the shop was called Styx and Stones. Quinn felt a smile tug at her lips as she glanced at the sign. Standing on the sidewalk, trying to peer through the grimy windows, she waited for the others to clamber out from the car, Rachel and Brittany still groggy from sleep.

"Where are we?" Rachel asked, her voice still lathered with sleep. She put a hand to her mouth as she stifled a yawn. Brittany stumbled out of the car, Santana's arms around her for support.

"This is the shop my old friend, Lilith, runs. We're here to have a chat," Quinn explained. No one spoke, so, taking that as a sign, she stepped forward and pushed open the door. It creaked, like the sound of an old woman's bones, and a bell just above their heads ran, shrill in the darkened space. From somewhere in the depths of the shop came the sound of scuffling, and a moment later, a woman appeared. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders in golden curls and her brown eyes shone bright; she was of an indeterminate age - she could have been thirty, or she could have been fifty-five; looking at her, it was impossible to tell, only, Quinn knew that she was much older. Looks were deceptive.

"May I help you?" the woman asked, shuffling closer. Quinn stepped into the circle of light cast by the lamp on the counter. A grin split Lilith's face and the tension visibly melted from her shoulders. "Well now, that's not a face I expected to see again for a long while," she said, "what brings you here, my little fallen angel?"

"I'm not allowed to visit an old friend?" Quinn smiled, throwing up her hands in mock exasperation and moving forward, closing the distance between the two of them, and then pulling the other woman into a tight embrace. She basked for a moment in the familiar smells of the woman, cinnamon mingled with the barest whiff of old age. When they broke apart, Lilith held her at arms' length, scrutinising her, the way a grandmother would after a long absence.

"Look at you, so much older. Has it been so long?" the older woman whispered, "but come now, no one brings an entourage to visit an old friend. And are we to stand here strangers all day? My, you have forgotten your manners, haven't you?"

And with that, Quinn snapped to, making the necessary introductions. When they were all acquainted with one another, Lilith disappeared into the storeroom, re-emerging moments later with several teacups and a steaming pot of tea. They stood around the counter as Lilith distributed the hot liquid amongst the five cups.

"How do you like my new quarters? I do believe they're quite right for my taste," Lilith said as she poured. Quinn suppressed a smile they were indeed suited to the other woman, old leather bound books falling over on the shelves, an assortment of oddments among them - a broken skull, several types of rock, a sealed jar of honey - and from the ceiling, clusters of dried herbs hung, perfuming the air with their distinctive aromas.

"I don't know. I think your old place had more…spark," Quinn said with a straight face, eyeing the collection of daggers with ornamental handles sitting behind a wall of glass. But Lilith knew the tone in Quinn's voice and laughed. She observed the four of them as they sipped their scalding tea.

"What to do with you? Two witches, a nephilim, and a fallen angel, what a motley crew you make," she sighed as the shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

"Excuse me, but we're here to get help from you, not be criticised," Santana snapped, unused to being stared at so intently. Lilith raised an eyebrow.

"My dear, that was not criticism, it was a simple statement of fact. However, if it was criticism you were seeking, I should begin by saying that all your bravado is a poor disguise for the minimal magic you are able to wield, and it is almost an insult to witches to call you one of their kind," Lilith calmly replied while Santana's face flushed red in fury and the air began to sizzle.

"Oh, I'll show you magic," she was muttering, gathering power to herself, only to be cut off by Quinn.

"Hey! Stop. Show some respect. Compared to some of the witches Lilith's known, you're like a sapling in a forest. But, if you keep yourself together and ask politely enough, she just might give you some tips."

Santana growled in her suppressed fury, but quietened, the atmosphere returning to its normal, dusty self. Quinn also spared a glare for Lilith, who merely shrugged and looked nonplussed.

"You, young lady, ought to tap into your power more and learn to take control; you're more powerful than your feisty little friend there," Lilith continued, looking at Brittany for a moment, before turning to Rachel, " and you, do not be afraid of who you are. Fear yourself, and you shall live in discomfort for the rest of your life. Embrace yourself. Don't let yourself grow into a bitter old woman, despising the world because you can't accept who you are. No hero ever won by fearing their power, and nephilim though you are, you have power, lying dormant, eager to be touched.

"As for you, old friend, you know what I shall say. Be true. Stop fighting your demons, otherwise, my dear, they'll not stop fighting back. You cannot fight on two fronts. Also, you've grown lax," Lilith finished, facing Quinn, whose jaw was clenched. But she managed a nod. They each stood there, taking in what the older lady had said, wanting to embrace her advice, yet fearing it; to obey would be to shatter the status quo.

"Now tell me, why are you really here?" Lilith asked, breaking the contemplative silence. They all looked to Quinn, who, mentally sighing, took a breath and began.

"Morgana paid me a visit," she said, and a flicker of surprise crossed Lilith's face, "told me it was time. But I need confirmation, Lilith, before I throw myself into the fire. Is she right? Please, I know you hate doing it, but can you please take a look into the future? As a favour for an old friend in dire need?"

Lilith began pacing in the small space, sighing, making small noises of deep thinking. She looked almost manic, and Quinn wondered for a moment if asking her was the wrong thing to do. The other three were looking at her, questions in their eyes, but she ignored them; now was not the time. She didn't know if there was ever going to be a time. Abruptly, Lilith stopped and stared with wild eyes at Quinn. Her hands smoothed and resmoothed her dress, over and over again, twisted the fabric in her fingers, and then smoothed it again. Quinn felt fear build in the pit of her stomach; she knew something was wrong even before Lilith opened her mouth.

"Quinn, I cannot. I - I have not fed in a long, long time. I can't."

"What? Lilith, how long?" Quinn frowned. Lilith refused to give an answer, shaking her head, suddenly fearful. Quinn's own fear made her snap in anger, "Lilith! How long? Answer me!"

"Four years," came the reply, small, barely audible. Quinn took several steps backwards, reeling. Four years. Four years without feeding on the life of others, four years without seeing into the future; no wonder Lilith was reluctant to speak, it was unheard of for a Lamia to go so long without feeding. Quinn felt the small flame of hope within her die down, reduced to the faintest glowing ember.

"Why? Why would you do such a thing? I need you, Lilith!" she despaired. She looked around the room, hoping that something would present itself as a solution for her problem, this insurmountable problem that she had not foreseen. An idea flitted through her mind. "What if you feed? What if we replenish you? Would it work? Lilith, I need to know if it would work! Four years. By everything that's holy, four years, how do you survive? Your soul could be damaged beyond repair. What were you thinking?" Quinn shouted the last statement, but Lilith kept her head lowered, shaking it from side to side. Her hands trembled, and she seemed, very suddenly, an old woman, her hair losing its lustre, her back hunched over, her posture small. Rachel stepped forward and put a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder, murmuring words of reassurance until Lilith stopped her body's quaking. Rachel turned to glare at Quinn.

"That's enough. You don't have the right to tell this woman how to live. If wants to go without…without feeding for four years, then it's her right," she admonished, "that would be like telling me that I can't be a vegan. It's not your choice, Quinn Fabray, so don't you pretend that it is."

Quinn stared. She should have been expecting that, but she wasn't. They'd gone for so long without a confrontation, that Quinn had forgotten that Rachel was full of fire. She'd also forgotten that the small brunette girl was compassionate, much more compassionate than she herself had ever been. She ran a hand through her pink stained her, biting at her lip. Rachel was right, of course. It was funny, Rachel was always right just when Quinn lost herself, and the other girl brought her back to reality. She nodded.

"Fine. This was a waste of time then. Sorry for disturbing you, Lilith. It was nice seeing you, but we ought to go. There's a war to prepare for."

"Wait!" Lilith said, as the four of them, slightly downtrodden, turned away. "I can help! You all need some teaching, and you, Quinn, need reminding. I might not be a full strength Lamia any longer, but my dears, I am not useless."

With a smile threatening to overcome her, Quinn nodded. It was better than nothing, after all, and Lilith was right. How could they go into battle with children?


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: sorry everyone who's waited forever for an update! I had a major case of writer's block. Hopefully it won't happen again. Fingers crossed!**

The world around Quinn began to spin, the red liquid of her third glass of wine burning her throat as it dripped down her oesophagus. The room became a dizzying swirl of lights and walls which wavered and pulsed and breathed. She reached again for the bottle, but her hand missed its rocking and lurching form, and with a hollow clatter, it fell forwards, spilling its innards like a disembowelled body.

For three days she and the other three had been in Hell, spending their free time with Lilith when the demon could spare it. For three days Quinn had her memories touched and brought to the surface by the keen and precise hand of Lilith's consciousness. Everything that Quinn had spent the past few years of her life suppressing as she tried to carve out some semblance of a normal life rose to the surface, like dead bodies, free from their anchors, rising to the surface of the ocean, rotting and inhuman. Everything she thought she'd forgotten was at the fore of her mind, every second of every waking hour. She couldn't handle it, this influx of her personal history, her guilt, her successes, her failures. Today, she drew the curtains around her small room and opened the bottle she'd snuck into it from Lilith's never used liquor cabinet. And then she proceeded to try drink herself to oblivion. From the way her hand had begun to treble slightly, she assumed she was halfway there. She stared forlornly at the spilled wine, willing it back into the bottle with her mind. It resolutely dripped off the side of her table and onto the wooden floor, defiant.

"Fuck it," she cursed under her breath. She tried to stand, but her knees wouldn't support her, and she lurched forward, bumping her pelvis into the table and staining her black top with the wine. She sunk down onto the floor. She despised the fact that she was too drunk to move, but not drunk enough to sleep. What she needed was more wine. More alcohol. More peace of mind, and a demolition of all her obligations to the universe. It was her duty to be there when the fight began, but if she'd had her way, she wouldn't ever have to see that day. But life continued as it would, without consideration for her. She would attend to her duty, or her duties would come knocking on her door with red, red lips and promises of seduction.

She tapped out a half remembered beat onto the floorboards with her knuckles, humming fragments of a melody. She couldn't remember where she'd heard it, and wondered whether she'd be able to remember any of it when she was sober. She wondered whether it was a side effect of having her memories restored, one century at a time. She hadn't forgotten those things, as such, she'd just buried them under the different lives she'd lived since; it was the first thing Lilith had noticed about her, the demon confessed, when it was Quinn's turn to spend some time with her.

"You seem like half the angel I know you are, and I think it's because you're trying not to be an angel at all," Lilith chided as they sat opposite one another in the dusty back of Lilith's shop, alone and undisturbed. "I need to remind you of who you are, my dear."

"I haven't forgotten," Quinn had tersely replied, but Lilith smiled a sad half smile.

"Indeed you have. Or have tried to. I've known you for too long my little Fallen one. You cannot hide yourself from me."

So Quinn had let her slide into her mind, smooth and unobstructed. Now she wished she hadn't. Leaning forward, she opened her mouth and stuck her tongue out, trying to catch the perfect beads of wine as they fell from the precipice of the table; blood red and not enough to sate her desire for complete drunkenness. A knock on the door shocked her into a more becoming sitting position.

"Come in," she slurred, her tongue heavy in her mouth, as though it had gone stiff from years of disuse. The door creaked open and the floor groaned in protest as someone walked over the threshold.

"Quinn! Lilith's been asking…" Rachel began, but trailed off, taking in the scene before her, the spilled wine, Quinn's haphazard look, and the fact she was seated on the floor, legs spread into a wide V. Quinn's head lolled to one side and she shot Rachel a rare, drunken grin.

She grinned even wider as she watched Rachel's face turn from shock to anger. Somehow the expression made her giggle in her drunkenness. The small girl folded her arms and held her fists clenched in anger. She glared down at Quinn.

"What have you done you silly woman?" she chastised, taking in the spilled wine, "are you trying to poison yourself?"

"Mmm, sort of," Quinn muttered, her face falling. "Why? D'you wanna join? You'll have to bring your own. 'Fraid I spilled all mine."

"And drank more than you spilled, from the looks of things," Rachel muttered in disgust. "You're supposed to be our leader, Quinn. We're here because of you, and your prophecies, and your history and your fear of oncoming doom. So we're not here to see you drink yourself to death. Pull yourself together, or you're going to be left on your own to fight whatever it is that's coming out of the dark for you."

Quinn scratched the side of her nose, staring down at Rachel's feet. The other girl's words were making sense; too much sense. She didn't want responsibility, she didn't want them there with her, three girls too young to fight in a battle that had nothing to do with them. And yet, it had everything to do with them. They weren't all who they pretended to be, the rational, sober voice in her head reminded her.

"Water," she croaked, pushing herself back into her responsibilities. Rachel, obliging, poured her a glass from the sink in the corner, but instead of handing it to Quinn, upturned the glass and dumped its contents onto her head. Quinn started, jumping and turning to glare at Rachel.

"That was for your irresponsibility. It's not a slushie, but it's the closest I can get under the current circumstances," she growled, before filling another glass, this time actually handing it to Quinn, whose pink hair clung to her forehead, glued there by the water. Downing it quickly, Quinn could feel her insides sigh with relief at its coolness. She pushed the glass back into Rachel's hands, who filled it again. Several glasses later, she felt sufficiently better, though bloated from the influx of too much liquid. She lay on her back on the soft mattress of her bed, Rachel sitting beside her on a chair, her chin resting on her hands, while her elbows rested on her knees.

"What are we to do with you, Quinn?" she sighed.

"I'm sorry," Quinn replied, turning to look at Rachel, "the drinking was really stupid. I shouldn't have done it."

"Did you mean what you said? About wanting to poison yourself with the alcohol?" Rachel asked quietly, staring into Quinn's hazel eyes. Quinn couldn't hold her gaze; her eyes flicked away, finding something else to focus on, something invisible. She thought about her answer. She decided on the truth. Rachel deserved that.

"Yes. A part of me wishes that none of this was happening. I want it to be over, Rachel. I tried to live like a normal person because I couldn't take not being one. I even went back to high school, because what's more normal than high school? Not that any of it worked. All I did was manage to make life worse for myself. Who knew high school could be that bad for one person?" she muttered. Shaking her head, she returned her gaze to Rachel, "but I am sorry. It was really irresponsible. I brought you here, and I should be working harder than I am to keep you safe. I promised your dad I'd keep you safe."

"Do you have to?" Rachel murmured, a pang of helplessness colouring her voice.

"Of course I have to keep you safe."

"No, I meant, did you have to bring up my dad?" Rachel whispered, and Quinn felt herself go red in shame.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think. It was stupid. I'm sorry."

"Just don't drink again," Rachel said, casually brushing something away from her eye, in a gesture so quick that Quinn almost missed it. She stood, and was halfway to the door when she stopped and looked back. "You're late for your session with Lilith, you know."

Quinn groaned to herself as Rachel walked out, the door rattling shut behind her. Pulling on a pair of shoes, she hurried to her meeting, knowing that Lilith wouldn't say anything, merely pretend that her lateness hadn't happened, disapproving silently. Like as not, Lilith would probably be passive aggressive, or she would take out her feelings on Quinn's mind in punishment. Quinn tried to ignore the pounding of her head just as she tried to forget about what her impending punishment might be.

When she burst into the back room of Lilith's shop, she found the older woman sitting with Santana, their heads so close they were almost touching. They stared at something on the tabletop in front of them. A stream of smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, curling and unfurling as it reached for heaven. Quinn paused at the door, unwilling to interrupt.

"Concentrate, Santana, feel the power in you. Embrace it, do not run from it. How can you master your power when you are too afraid to go near it?" Lilith was saying.

"I'm not scared! I just can't do what you're telling me to do!"

"Try. Feel the rage of the fire within, spreading from your chest, to the tips of your fingers, from the depths of your mind, to the bottom of your toes. Feel the flames, see them dancing before you, engulfing the sage. Be elemental."

A low growl of concentration and frustration was emitted by Santana. Quinn could almost feel it reverberating within her own sternum. She could imagine seeing Santana's face, the way she was probably grinding her teeth, like she always did when she was trying hard to do something or remember something. She could picture it so perfectly, for a moment she imagined she could paint it from memory; if she could paint.

There was a sudden flare, and the smoke blackened for a second. Then the smell of burning sage filled the room. Santana slumped back into her chair, breathing a sigh of relief, the tension ebbing out of her shoulders.

"There, you see, it was merely an effort of concentration," Lilith smiled, patting the younger girl on the shoulder.

"I'll give you concentration," Santana muttered, but her voice was laced with pride, erasing the sting from her words. Lilith turned her head and caught Quinn staring.

"Ah, and look to see who graces us with her presence. I hope you're proud of your friend. She managed to achieve something today. A little more time and she ought to master her power over fire, if she continues to practice," Lilith smiled, and Santana, turning to face Quinn, gave her a sheepish grin. Quinn nodded.

"Good on you, San. I bet it's a lot harder than it seems," she said.

"You have no idea," Santana muttered.

"Nonsense! You spend the afternoon practising setting small things on fire, and we'll pick up where we left off later."

Santana picked up her backpack, muttering grievances under her breath, but the gleam in her eye told everyone in the room that she didn't mean it. She was proud of herself, and rightly so. Up until that point, they'd been lighting their fires the mortal way, with matches and lighters. She'd never before been able to make something spontaneously combust. It might be a handy skill to have, Quinn thought as she stared at Santana's back as she made her way off. Lilith cleared her throat, drawing her attention.

"I'm not going to ask why you spent your morning trying to drown yourself in the bottom of a glass," she began, surprising Quinn by her knowledge, "but I will say that it had better not happen again. You are their leader, Quinn, you have to be there for them."

"Spare me the lecture. I've already had one from Rachel."

"Good. But I don't think another would hurt you," Lilith replied curtly, but didn't press the matter. Apparently she thought that one reprimand was enough too. "Well, where were we?"

"Digging up everything I've fought so hard to bury for the last three thousand years," Quinn muttered darkly. A chortle sounded from Lilith.

"No need to sound so happy about it, Quinn. It's all for the greater good, you know that."

"The greater good can go to hell for all I care! I'm sick of being it's goddamn pawn!" Quinn spat, surprising the both of them. Lilith settled back into her chair, which groaned at the redistribution of weight. Quinn flopped down into the one Santana had vacated; it was still warm.

"Now, now, what was that?"

"Nothing," Quinn replied, "can we just get on with this?"

"Quinn, we need to talk about this. This could be why you've lost so much of your power, your influence. If you're holding yourself back, then there's nothing I can do to help you."

"You're one to talk, Lilith, when you've deliberately cut yourself off from your own power. How are you supposed to help me if you can't even use your powers?" Quinn growled in dark anger. Lilith leant back in her chair and folded her arms.

"That's not fair, Quinn. It's not the same thing. I never took up a part in this silly war. I don't have an obligation to see it to its end. You, however, my dear, have dubbed yourself a leader. You cannot turn your back on those you promised to support. You can't turn your back on these girls just because you are too afraid of remembering."

"Go to hell."

"I already have," Lilith shot back, "or have you forgotten? Look about you, this is hell. Not just the name of the place, but what I made it into. Do you think it's easy to just stop feeding and losing touch with everything that defined you? That's the path you're heading down, Fallen, if you do the same."

Quinn sighed and let her head roll back, the joint at the base of her skull creaking as she did so, the sound disturbing her, but she did it anyway. The low ceiling in the backroom was bare from hanging assortments of dried herbs, and instead, was carved with hundreds, perhaps thousands of odd symbols, sigils and runes, like all the ones Lilith had ever known were up there, carved into the wooden beams of the ceiling in case they were erased from her mind. Quinn wondered for a moment whether she herself could remember them all if she had to. They weren't her forte, but she'd learnt them once. She closed her eyes, sighing again. She reached tendrils of consciousness back into her memory, stirring up images which had long since lain dormant. When she opened her eyes again, her vision swam. As it came back into focus, she stared at the symbols directly above her, identifying them, slowly, one by one, like walking upon a once well travelled track, and remembering all the cracks in the sidewalk and what had caused them. As her memories returned, so too did her sense of obligation, settling in her chest and over her shoulders, an invisible mantle to carry.

She let her head loll forward, until she was eye to eye again with Lilith. Pursing her lips for a fraction of a second, she spoke.

"Alright. Let's do this."

"Close your eyes," Lilith murmured, and a moment later, Quinn felt the other woman's presence in her mind, prodding and poking and gently unravelling. Memories surfaced, the faces of people barely remembered swam in her mind's eye, laughter long gone and sadness once keenly felt returned for brief moments. Quinn let them come. She let them fill her, their presence a reminder of herself, of all she'd done and seen in her lifetime.

Eventually, she felt her head empty of Lilith's presence. Opening her eyes, Quinn felt more herself than she had felt in a long time. Her shoulders were pushed back, held there by responsibility, the pressure in her chest becoming a comfort of leadership and when she looked Lilith in the eye, both of them knew that she would no longer shun her duty to the other girls. There would be no more alcoholic stints.

"Welcome back, Fallen," Lilith smiled, the corners of her mouth betraying pride as well as relief.

"So tell me, how are my protégés progressing?" Quinn asked, returning the smile and leaning back comfortably into her chair. The black ink lines on her back prickled with her new affirmation of power. Rolling her shoulders back, Quinn slowly let her black wings unfold, until the hung over the back of the chair, bobbing slowly up and down with her breathing. Lilith didn't even blink.

"They're doing well. Santana is beginning to master the basic elementals, while Brittany is particularly adept at runes. If we're careful not to lose her to the other side, she could be one of our most powerful allies. The runes lead to many things. And as for our budding Nephilim, it seems her power lies in her empathy. We're still trying to determine exactly what it is she can do. It's slow progress."

"Good, good. Oh, and Lilith? Good to know that you still consider yourself one of us," Quinn smirked, picking up on the other woman's use of 'our'. She shrugged back.

"I may not have declared allegiance for a particular side, but I do have my preferences."

"How much longer will they need to be trained?"

"As long as possible. Their entire lives, if only we had that time. But I know the war is looming," Lilith said, interrupting the sentence Quinn looked like she was going to start, "delay jumping into the fray as long as you can, my dear, otherwise you'll lose your friends."

Quinn was quiet, pondering this. How much time did she actually have? It was impossible to know. With Morgana on the prowl, reaching out to those she'd long lost contact with, reigniting the passion of the fight in them, they mightn't have very much time at all. The faint lingering of burnt sage filled Quinn's head with the almost panic that she could easily lose herself to, knowing that her friends might not be ready in time to fight a war they'd thrown themselves unwittingly into. She bit the inside of her cheek. Everything depended on the Coming of Arthur. And the only person who might have been able to tell her when that was sat across from her, head tilted to one side, smiling faintly, her powers of foresight almost completely obliterated.

"Lilith, how restricted have your powers become?" she asked, a faint hope stirring in her chest. Lilith shook her head.

"I know what you would like from me, Quinn, but I cannot. I've been restricted to personal timelines; my own only, in fact, and not very far into the future. A few days at a time; a week if I'm particularly lucky." Quinn's head slumped forward at the information. That wasn't good news at all.

"Keep me informed though, please. You'll be the first to know if something is going to happen to us while we're here. I won't lose them, I won't. I promised to keep them safe."

Lilith nodded in understanding. The sound of claws tapping against wooden floorboard captured their attention and both of them turned to see Lord Tubbington slinking into the room. He meowed plaintively at them, then leapt onto the table, curling up in the centre of it. Quinn stroked his fur, eliciting a soft purr from the creature. Lilith chuckled.

"Does Brittany know about her feline friend?" she asked, and seeing Quinn shake her head, said, "do you think we ought to tell her?"

"Oh, no. Lord Tubbington has had quite a good life as a cat. I think we should let him enjoy it a little longer before we take it away for our own uses," Quinn replied, and the cat purred louder, apparently agreeing with the sentiment. "Although I wonder if Brittany already suspects. She thinks this cat has all sorts of un-feline behaviour - smoking, an ecstasy addiction, caffeine addiction - and I'm sure she hears him speak sometimes."

"Unsurprising, I suppose, all things considered."

Quinn shrugged, "Yeah, I guess."

As if hearing them talk about her, Brittany entered the room, her eyes lighting up when they spotted the cat sitting on the tabletop. Bustling forward, she scooped him up in her arms. A moment later, Santana followed, never very far from Brittany. Wordlessly, they sat down around the table. Quinn cocked an eyebrow at them.

"We're tired of being left to our own devices, so decided to sit in on the war council," Santana explained matter of factly, as if Quinn should have already guessed that.

"My sentiments exactly," a voice came floating through the door, preceding it's owner. Rachel appeared and took the last remaining seat around the table. "If we're in this, we need to be properly in this. We demand being kept informed at all times."

"Ay dios mio, who told her about this?" Santana muttered, rolling her eyes. Brittany blinked, looking at her.

"I did. When you said we should be there when Quinn makes decisions, I thought you mean all three of us," she said. Santana eyed her with both a hint of annoyance mixed with unmistakable affection.

"Britt, when I say 'we', I mean you and I. At least, most of the time," the Latina shrugged. "Oh well, the Hobbit's here now, so let's get on with it. Fabray, the floor's yours."

"Oh, thanks very much, Santana," Quinn growled sarcastically, but paused, thinking about her next move. She weighed the words of Lilith carefully in her mind. Time, they needed time. She needed to know when events would start. Flotsam and jetsam started to come together in her mind, congealing themselves into an idea. She put it aside, but it was sticky, clinging to her every other thought, overpowering them, like a parasite she couldn't shake off. Frowning, she stopped trying to work on another solution and thought about the idea that wouldn't let go. It could work. "Ok," she said, clearing her throat and grabbing the attention of everyone in the room, "here's the plan. Santana, Brittany, I'm going to need you two to pull on the source, we're going to need your magic. Brittany, I'm also going to need you to draw some runes for amplification; strong ones. Rach, you need to empathise with Lilith, and with us, or this might not work. Those two are going to be the channel between us and the magic," she pointed at the two witches, "and you're going to channel the information from Lilith to us, amplifying it as much as you can, aided by Brittany's rune. Lilith, we're going to try get into your power, or what's left of it. The direction we need comes from knowing when things are going to start for certain, and the only way we're going to find out is from you, so we need to do this. Ok?"

Everyone nodded mutely. Santana and Brittany started on the runes, Brittany dipping a forefinger into a vial of lavender oil and drawing them on the tabletop, while Santana set about encasing the table in a ring of salt for protection. Lilith stared intently at the two of them, her eyes giving nothing away, but neither of the girls noticed. Quinn prepared herself for what she might see. When they were ready, Santana took her seat beside the blonde cheerleader and nodded to Quinn. Quinn returned the nod. A moment later, the atmosphere inside the room changed. The light flickered, but it was not light from within the room, it was ethereal, like the light between an old cinema projector and the screen. Santana's brow was furrowed and her hand was linked tightly with Brittany's, who was as deep in concentration as the other girl. Santana looked to Lilith, and almost instantly the light changed, forming fuzzy figures which became clearer by the second. Rachel, sitting between Lilith and Quinn, had a hand lying lightly on the both of them. Quinn could feel the power of each of the women in the room, converging and blending, forming the scene. The images crystallised, becoming representations of physical beings, much like the holograms so often seen in futuristic films.

A tall man, blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight, stood at the crest of a hill, overlooking a battalion of beings. Toward him walked a woman, equally as tall, and Quinn, with a jolt in her stomach, recognised her as Morgana. The image shifted, melting away before recollecting to form something else. Quinn felt her teeth clench as she realised that this time she was seeing a battle, brutal and bloody, with limbs and bodies strewn about the battlefield, near, it seemed to the hill they had just seen the blonde man standing upon. The visions sputtered, flickering in and out of life before changing again, to Quinn and Morgana, seated upon a hill, gazing out amongst a sea of star like campfires. Quinn frowned; it looked too much like the past to be the future. Before she could analyse it again, it was gone, and the image became the golden haired man, bedraggled and wet, dragging himself up onto the bank of a river or a lake, exhausted and on the edge, it seemed, of collapse. The image flickered again, struggling to maintain its existence. A figure approached the man, clad in a dark cloak, but the image died before Quinn could recognise them.

The air went still, the supernatural light faded. She looked to her companions sitting around the table. Brittany was blinking rapidly, as though she were trying to fight sleep from claiming her eyelids and sewing them shut. Lilith looked gaunt. Quinn gazed at her, waiting for their eyes to meet. Dolefully, Lilith drew her eyes to meet Quinn's hazel ones. She shrugged.

"Hard to make out, but three weeks, I think, at most, until the battle. Don't ask about the rest, I could not fathom them. Never before have they been so disjointed, so short. I did not realise I'd lost so much power. I'm sorry, my dear, but I fear I have failed you in what you needed."

Quinn shook her head, and leaned forward until her hand touched the older woman's.

"No, you haven't. You've helped greatly. More than you could have, under the circumstances. But you're sure three weeks?" the fallen angel asked. Lilith nodded. The five of them slumped back into their chairs. It was going to be a hard, long three weeks, perhaps the most grueling of their lives. Where was the battle to take place? Quinn hadn't recognised the hill. Why was Morgana approaching Arthur there? For the golden haired man was clearly Arthur, just the same as he was in her memory. And who had been there when he dragged himself out of the lake? Why was he in the lake? And why did she see a vision of her past when she was looking into the future? The last question haunted her the most. Quinn bit the inside of her lip, praying for an easy answer, knowing it wasn't likely.


End file.
